


Jamestown II: Perdition

by Fritti13



Category: The A-Team (TV)
Genre: Angst, Episode Related, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-21
Updated: 2015-10-21
Packaged: 2018-04-27 09:12:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 47,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5042509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fritti13/pseuds/Fritti13
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An old enemy of the team resurfaces and wants revenge.</p>
<p>WARNINGS: A bit of con and non-con touching, both het and M/M. Nothing too serious. If you don't like the idea of our guys killing for any reason whatsoever, you probably won't approve of some things in this story. Cuss words.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Jamestown II: Perdition

Jamestown II: Perdition

AUTHOR: Barb

DATES WRITTEN: April - July, 2001 and posted elsewhere

RATING: A soft NC-17

ARCHIVE: yes

DISCLAIMER: The A-Team created by Stephen J. Cannell and owned by Universal. This story was written for fun and not profit. With two kids to put through college I sure as Hell am not worth any money.

WARNINGS: A bit of con and non-con touching, both het and M/M. Nothing too serious. If you don't like the idea of our guys killing for any reason whatsoever, you probably won't approve of some things in this story. Cuss words.

EPISODE SPOILERS: Children of Jamestown

SUMMARY: An old enemy of the team resurfaces and wants revenge.

COMMENTS: Bring 'em on

AUTHOR'S NOTES: John Saxon was just such a creepy bad guy, wasn't he?

 

~~~AAAaaaAAA~~~

 

He stood alone upon the rocky knoll. The writhing mass of demons below taunted him from the fetid mists that curled about his feet. Sulfurous fumes and the stench of rotting corpses assailed his nose. Amongst the malformed spawn of Hell, he could see members of his flock, once devoted and loving, now jeering and hateful. An occasional rock was thrown along with the insults. He ignored them. The mists boiled in turmoil momentarily before parting to reveal a large demon climbing the slight incline toward him. A grotesque apparition with the body of a bull and the head of an albino crocodile. The slavering demon strode forth and grinned with needle-toothed malevolence. Noxious fumes trickled from the demons nostrils as he laughed and called to more of his Hellspawned legions.

Another demon approached, lion-headed with a glorious mane, a serpents body and a flickering, forked tongue. Venom dripped from long fangs as the creature grinned as well. A third demon emerged, silhouetted against the crimson sky. One with a hulking brown bear-like semblance, scaly skin and the head of a massive bulldog. The third creature snarled and circled to the left behind the man on the knoll. A hyena with large, bat shaped wings laughed hysterically as it appeared behind and to the right. Out of the corner of his eye, the man could just make out a fifth abomination. A snake-headed woman with a chitinous spider body. A black widow design flashed briefly upon her back as she slunk tentatively around the group.

Without warning the four large creatures surrounding the man closed about him, each snatching a limb in their slavering jaws. The man felt the poisonous fangs of the lion-headed snake burn through the blood of his right arm as the noxious smoke from the mutant croc assaulted him from the left. The bear like horror and the bat-hyena each held a foot firmly in their grasp. They all began to laugh.

The man cried out to his God. He had been forsaken. His enemies were all around. His mission; lost. As he felt his limbs being rent by the Hellspawn he called upon the heavens for salvation. A light split the firmament and poured down upon him like fluid electricity. The lesser demons and the humans milling about below fell back in wonder. The snake headed woman paused uncertainly. However, the four ravenous Hellspawn that held him firmly refused to acknowledge the light and continued to knaw upon his flesh.

The man was abruptly filled with zealous might. He felt the burning glory and saw clearly his path. With sudden inhuman strength he broke his right arm free of the lion-serpent and clutched its throat in his hand. With an audible snap, the demons neck fractured and it fell lifeless at the mans feet.

The albino croc-bull howled its anger and renewed its assault. The man ignored him, however, and turned to the hyena-bat upon his right leg. With a mighty blow the demons brains were smashed and it, too, fell lifeless. Once again the

croc-bull roared in fury as the lesser demons below began to know fear and silently slunk away. The humans who had once been the man's followers began to look upon him with respect once again and it was revealed to the man that the four demons were the source of his estrangement from his flock.

With renewed determination the man flung himself upon the bear-bulldog, even while still being attacked by the last and largest Hellspawn. The bear-bulldogs demon heart lay suddenly in the mans hand, bloody and dead. The croc-bull wailed and for the first time knew fear.

The man's followers were now moving forward, cheering and calling his name. With righteousness blazing through his veins like liquid fire, the man smote the last demon and the albino crocodile-bull, now without the strength of the other three, shattered the air with an unearthly shriek as his back broke. The man's followers surged forward to touch their savior, pleading for his blessing, anointing him with their kisses and calling for his forgiveness. He caressed them, accepting their supplications and forgiving them. His path was clear now. The four demons of the underworld, Lords of Perdition, were the key. They held back his faithful, led them astray and raped his strength. They must be sent back to the fires of Hell if he were to regain his flock.

The man stirred, opened his eyes and smiled.

Martin James had once again begun to dream.

~~~aaaAAAaaa~~~

H.M. Murdock shifted impatiently on the edge of his bed and waited for the seemingly endless commercials to end. He glanced at the clock and mentally tallied where each of his teammates would probably be. They had long ago made it a habit of informing at least one other team member as to their likely whereabouts when on down time. It was a matter of survival, at times, to be able to move swiftly or issue warnings. Murdock, having the most stable and dependable residence, was usually the one that the others left their messages with. As an Alka Seltzer commercial began, Murdock quickly tabulated what he knew. Hannibal; poker at Bud Johnson's house in the Hollywood Hills. Bud, a set gaffer, and some of his other behind the scenes buddies, could be counted on to keep quiet about their infamous pal. Face; a date at Deadwood Dick's HonkyTonk with his girlfriend of the last two months, Bonita. B.A.; where was B.A.? Ah, yes. Evening umping a Little League game and then back to his apartment.

The pilot's thoughts turned back to the television and his face brightened as the National Geographic Explorer Special on the Wonders of Nepal resumed with a panoramic shot of the Himalayan Mountains. The narrator had hardly begun speaking, however, when the click of a key in his door announced someone's arrival. Murdock sighed in frustration when an orderly entered with a medicine tray.

"You're early. You're not supposed to be here until 1100 hours. It's only 0930 hours! You're interrupting my show and they're about to demonstrate how to make Yak Butter Tea!" The tall pilot paced in irritation, trying to see around the sandy haired orderly who was now obstructing his view of the television set. The orderly spoke up smoothly.

"Change in the schedule tonight, Mr. Murdock. Sorry. Now take your medication and you can get back to your show."

Murdock paused at the tone in the orderlies voice and surveyed him quickly. The man was not familiar to the long time resident of the V.A. Alarm bells began to tinkle gently in his head and he searched for ways to feel out the situation.

"Do you know how to make Yak Butter Tea? 'Cause I've got a sudden hankerin' to try it. See how they're doin' it? They gotta milk a Yak first. Ever milked a Yak?" He rambled on for a moment and watched as the man shifted anxiously from one foot to another. The orderly held out a small Dixie cup with pills in it. The alarm bells were ringing clearly.

"Here you go. Now be nice and take these."

Murdock peered into the cup and backed away with his hands in front of his body.

"Oh no. Those are blue pills. I never touch blue pills. They make my hair fall out! See this?" He pointed to his head. "Six months ago I looked like Barry Gibb from the Bee Gees. Hair out to here! Then I took a blue pill and BLAMMO! Fell out in chunks! Uh uh. No blue pills for me. Red pills, sure. Maybe even a green pill or two. Yellow ones are nice. But no blue pills!"

The strange orderly was beginning to look agitated as his hand began a slow creep to the bulging pocket of his jacket. The alarm bells were now in full clamor. Murdock made a quick decision.

"Oh! These aren't blue pills. Why didn't you say these weren't blue. These are indigo. I can take indigo pills just fine. Give 'em here. I can still see the rest of my special. They might show Yak babies! Gotta see some Yak babies, ya know?" The lanky pilot grinned disarmingly, palmed the pills expertly up his sleeve and made a great show of swallowing them down with the glass of water the other man so obligingly held out. Beaming at the confused orderly he flopped back upon his bed and began humming contentedly. The other man simply scratched his head and turned to leave. Murdock studied the departing man surreptitiously as he casually dropped the pills out of his coat jacket to the floor on the far side of his bed. The sandy haired man was familiar somehow, if only the Texan could place him. The Nepal program droned on as Murdock, show forgotten, wracked his brain for a plan of action and a name to the man's face. He stared blindly at the set, ignoring the smiling Breck girl. Obviously, he was being set up for something, but for what, he didn't know.

A flash of memory darted across his synapses and a quick glimpse of a dusty compound in the California desert triggered more memory. Murdock placed the man now. He couldn't remember the name but a sudden cold shiver ran up his spine as he remembered the event. The rescue of a girl from the hands of a cult leader six months before. The orderly was one of the Jamestown cult. A minion of Reverend Martin James. Murdock had to get word to the others. He couldn't call. That would tip off his intruders that he was on to them. The pilot could now hear two men hanging about outside his door. He had to get out. That meant playing along.

~~~aaaAAAaaa~~~

Templeton Peck surveyed the crowd once again. It was a habit that had kept him alive for many years and he was very good at spotting anyone who didn't seem to belong. The carousing throngs at Deadwood Dick's Honkytonk, however, appeared to be just what they were; mostly drunk and disorderly. The honkytonk wasn't the trendy, upscale establishment he usually liked to take his dates to but then Bonita wasn't his normal type of girlfriend. The sloe-eyed, dark haired beauty had a "thing" for this type of bar, made popular after the 1980's hit "Urban Cowboy". She claimed that watching the young men thrash about on the mechanical bull turned her on. Face had had a hard time believing anything could work his lusty and imaginative lover into greater heights of passion until he had finally been cajoled into bringing her here two weeks ago. To his delight, she proved her claim. Over the course of the last two weeks they had come back four times. He knew he was pushing the limits of his luck by frequenting a place on such a regular basis but when she had brushed her full, heavy breasts up against him and asked once again in her whisky mellow voice he knew he wouldn't be able to deny her again tonight.

He swung his gaze back to her; watched as her full lips parted slightly and her little tongue darted out to moisten them. Her dark, brown eyes sparkled as she watched a young man being thrown about rather violently on the back of the mechanized beast. She slowly swung her head around and caught her lovers eyes on her. Lips curled hungrily as she reached for Face's hand, sliding it beneath the table and up her smooth thigh. The young, blonde man was astonished to discover his date had nothing beneath her skirt but his questing hand and it was quickly guided to the juncture of her legs. Grinning wickedly, he slipped two fingers into the hot, moist heat of her and was pleased to see her eyes widen in pleasure. As she ground her hips onto his hand Bonita reciprocated in kind by running her hand over his jean clad legs until it was resting on his now raging hard-on. She kneaded it gently and leaned to whisper huskily into his ear.

"Take me home and fuck me, Tem. I want you to ride me like I'm that bull."

He grinned again. She was going to prove her point again tonight. He would be exhausted in the morning but it would be well worth it. He rose, pulled out a fifty dollar bill and dropped it on the table.

"Pay for the drinks, baby. I'll pull the car around and meet you out front."

Face paused in the exit, scanning the street carefully, noting all the details around him. He moved around back of the building to the parking lot, wary as always. Seeing nothing alarming, the Lieutenant made his way to his latest scammed vehicle, a black Porsche convertible, and began to fish out his keys. A soft "phut!" alerted him a millisecond before the sting in his right shoulder told him something was amiss. He stared in astonishment at the large dart protruding from his body before yanking it frantically out. The blonde knew it was most likely already too late but he could do nothing less than try. He was furious at himself for letting this happen and furious at the cowardly, skulking sniper who had laid in wait for him. Purposely throwing the dart onto the floor boards of the car he lunged over the car door and scrabbled to open the glove compartment where his .357 magnum lay hidden. Already he could feel the numbing effects of the dart as his fingers became clumsy and useless. Darkness tinged the edge of his vision. As a wave of dizziness crashed over him he heard footsteps approaching. His hearing quickly diminished until he heard, nor saw, anything more.

Outside the main entrance to Deadwood Dick's Honkytonk, Bonita waited impatiently for a man who wasn't coming.

~~~aaaAAAaaa~~~

Brother Steven slipped back into the patients room, wheelchair in tow. Murdock lay limply on the bed, head lolling and drooling slightly. The "orderly" quickly switched the TV off and signaled to his partner. Brother John stepped into the room a made his way to the sleeping pilots form. Together they lifted Murdock into the wheelchair and rolled out of the room.

A scant ten minutes later the two acolytes had placed the lanky Texan on the bottom of an old, rusty white van and were driving slowly through the streets of LA The kidnap victim lay still, seemingly dead to the world. His ears, however, were wide awake.

"You think Benny and David had any trouble with the other?" Murdock couldn't tell which of his captors was which but the question had come from the driver. He listened closely.

"Hope not. We've been sitting outside this damn hospital for a week waiting for Peck to surface so we could collect "bozo" here. Hopefully we've got the timing right on this and we can all four meet up at that Youth Center in the morning. For sure, if we've got these three then Smith will have to come out of hiding. I'll tell ya, though, Stevie, I sure as hell am glad we've got all four of us on Baracus in the morning because he scares the shit out of me. David better have that tranq gun on target. I don't want to try to take that big guy down any other way."

"Well, we better not go back to the Reverend without him. He's been planning this for two months now and I don't want to face him if we screw up."

"Got that right, Brother. Got that right."

Murdock had heard what he needed to hear. Now it was time to make his exit. Rising silently, he crouched and readied himself. With one swift move he had crossed to the side door of the van and thrown it open. The driver, startled, began to curse.

"He's awake!! Damn it! Stop him!"

Murdock sprang from the moving van before the Brother in the passenger seat had time to turn. The lanky man hit the street hard, hands first, and felt bones snap in his right forearm. Skin from his palms and face slid away on the rough surface as he rolled several times. He ignored the pain. He was up and running before the van could even screech to a halt. Down a dark alley, the stench of urine and garbage strong in his nose, then up a street and down another alley. He could hear the old vans muffler pop and growl as his kidnappers desperately searched the streets for their escaped prey. Murdock didn't slow down. He had to get far enough away to safely place a call.

The lights of an all night supermarket beckoned from a block away and the pilot put on a burst of speed. He knew he must look a sight, bloodied and disheveled, with one arm cradled to his chest, but he had no choice. He slipped into the entrance and ducked behind a row of shopping carts a split second before the van rolled into sight. It cruised slowly by, faces peering out of its windows, looking through the plate glass doors of the supermarket. Then it was gone. Murdock sighed in relief and crossed quickly to the bank of pay phones next to the kiddy rides. He dialed the operator and placed a collect call.

When the phone connected he could hear the operator asking a grumpy sounding B.A. if he would accept a call from a "Red Ball One". B.A.s voice instantly became alert as he quickly accepted the charges. Murdock didn't waste any time.

"B.A.! Somethin' bad is going down. You gotta come get me. I'm at the Piggly Wiggly on Vine. Be careful. There's some bad dudes after me. I'll be in the men's room. I'll explain when you get here."

"I'll be right there, fool. You just hang tight." B.A. severed the connection and was gone.

~~~aaaAAAaaa~~~

Murdock was trying to gingerly dab at the raw patches on his face with a damp paper towel when B.A. found him less than twenty minutes after the call.

"Who did this ta you, Crazyman? Whatchoo doin' out of the V.A.?" The large man thundered angrily. B.A. observed the pinched look of pain around the pilots eyes and the pale wash of the undamaged skin of his face. He softened his voice in concern. "You hurt bad, Murdock? Let me see."

Murdock raised his brows slightly at the use of his given name by his large friend but ignored the chance to comment.

"We got trouble, Big Guy, and we don't have time to look at my owies just now. Later, after we've checked on Face and Hannibal." He steered B.A. quickly out of the men's room. They made their way without incident to the shiny, black GMC van parked in the back parking lot. B.A. took advantage of the time to give his lean friend a quick once over. The pilot was cradling his right arm and moving somewhat gingerly. Bloody, oozing scrapes covered his hands and face but his beloved leather jacket had saved Murdock from being torn up even more. The Seargent could tell a good case of road rash when he saw it. His friend had obviously jumped from a moving vehicle. B.A. was getting a very bad feeling.

Once in the van, Murdock directed B.A. to head downtown with as much speed as possible while he used the car phone to dial Bud Johnson's house in the hills. When the voice on the other end was replaced by his commander, the pilot heaved a sigh of relief.

"Hannibal, thank God. We got big problems, Colonel. Two men tried to kidnap me out of the V.A. tonight. I got away, but not before I figured out who they were. They're from that Jamestown cult we busted up about six months ago." Murdock saw B.A.'s eyebrows raise and his eyes widen before continuing. "I heard them talking about takin' Face down tonight, along with me. They plan to lay in wait for B.A. in the morning at the Youth Center. Their hopin' to draw you out, Colonel. We're on our way to the nightclub where I think Face is tonight. He was supposed to take Bonita to Deadwood Dick's Honkytonk on Willard and 5th."

B.A. couldn't hear the exact words that his commander spoke through the phone, but he heard the tone. Anger and worry. Murdock simply replied "Gotcha" and hung up.

"He'll meet us there, B.A. Step on it. We've got further to go than he does." B.A.'s foot tromped the gas and they sped through the night.

~~~aaaAAAaaa~~~

Hannibal kept his eyes peeled as he pulled into the parking lot of the nightclub. It wasn't hard to spot Face's Porsche. It stuck out like a sore thumb. He eased his gray Olds 442 into a parking lot several spaces down. The car was one in a series of cars he ran through but he liked this particular make and model for its power and speed. He took a moment to scope out the parking lot and surrounding area. Aside from the loud western music coming from the honkytonk and an occasional not-so-steady pedestrian, all looked quiet. He didn't let his guard down, however. That's the type of thing that could get a man killed. He was cautiously making his way toward Face's car when B.A.'s van pulled in. The three men quickly joined up by the side of the Porsche. Hannibal took in Murdock's ragged appearance.

"You look like Hell, Murdock. Face's car is here so he's probably inside with his new girl. We'd better check it out, though. B.A., you two stay here while I go on in. I won't stand out as much as you guys." The colonel waited for his Sergeant to acknowledge his order but B.A. wasn't even looking at him. "B.A.?"

"Somethin's wrong, Colonel." B.A.'s gruff voice hid his worry as he bent over the side of Face's convertible and picked something up off the floorboards. The large man placed a feathered tranquilizer dart in his commanding officers outstretched hand. Hannibal's face turned grim. He scanned the surrounding area again before sighing heavily.

"OK. We've got to assume Face has been taken. I'll check the nightclub anyway, just to be on the safe side." The older man pulled a wallet from his back pocket and fished three cards out, which he handed to B.A. "While I'm doing that I want you two to get over to Century City Hospital and have Murdock looked at. Here are a couple of I.D.s that Face made up a while back for just this kind of emergency. B.A., your drivers license says Joshua Rupert and the other card is a Blue Cross and Blue Shield insurance card, also in your name. Murdock, your license is for Billy Richter."

Hannibal smiled at the surprised look on his Captain's face. The Lieutenant had a strange sense of humor at times, but his covers were very thorough. Hannibal didn't know how he did it but the insurance card would clear the hospital, if only this once. He continued.

"Tell them you were out riding motorcycles and Murdock skidded on some garbage. I'll meet you there as soon as I check this place out."

Murdock nodded in agreement. It was getting harder and harder to ignore the pain and his teeth were clenched too tightly to answer properly. B.A. acknowledged Hannibal and led the pilot back to the van. Hannibal watched them go, took one more piercing sweep of the parking lot and headed for the nightclub.

An hour later, the Colonel joined the other two at the hospital. He found B.A. sitting in the hard, plastic chairs of the emergency waiting room and was quickly informed that Murdock was still being attended to in one of the cubicles. Hannibal nodded.

"I've got to call Amy. Sit tight."

"She in Washington, Hannibal. On assignment."

"I know. But she gave me a number where she could be reached before she left. I need her to do some digging for me. I'll be right back."

Within moments the silver haired man was back and together he and B.A. waited for news of their friend. The Sergeant was fast losing patience when a slightly glazed looking Murdock was escorted back to them. The young intern who steadied the pilot turned to B.A.

"Your friend took quite a tumble. He's got a clean break of both the radius and ulna of his right arm so we were able to set it and cast it tonight. It's going to be hurting pretty bad for the next couple of days until the bones start to knit. I've given him a shot for the pain and cleaned up his scrapes. They look pretty ugly but they should heal without scarring if he keeps them clean. Right now, the best thing to do is to keep them in the open air. Keep them cleaned with soap and water and apply this antibiotic gel after each cleaning. After they scab over, I'd suggest covering his hands with loose gauze to help protect them but otherwise just let nature take its course. They are going to weep and look ugly for a couple of days but don't let it scare you. I've given him a prescription for pain killers for the arm. Two as needed, not to exceed four doses a day, which means he can't have any less than six hours apart." The young man beamed up at B.A. as he handed over a small, plastic sack with the prescription and ointment. "I'm going to need to see him again in six weeks to take the cast off, or you can have his regular physician do it for him. He should probably have it checked again in a week or so just to make sure there isn't any unusual swelling or tenderness. Keep the cast dry. Wrap it in plastic when he showers. Right now I suggest you take him home and put him to bed.

Hannibal grinned at the intern and turned to Murdock.

"Ready to go, pal? I think we'll take you back to my place tonight and let you sack out."

The Texan's dilated eyes struggled to focus on the older man.

"There . . . there's a squirrel sitting on your shoulder, Colonel. A fluffy gray one."

B.A. snorted and led the drugged man out the door. Hannibal smiled at the confused looking intern and followed, leaning in close to the black man.

"B.A., you did tell the interns that Murdock was on other meds, didn't you?"

The larger man looked worried, then contrite.

"Forgot, Hannibal. I can't 'member the names of the stuff he takes anyway. You think he'll be all right?" He looked down into the dreamy face of the pilot.

"A little too late to worry about it now, Sergeant."

After agreeing to leave the Colonel's car in Hospital parking, they quickly settled Murdock into the van and headed toward Hannibal's apartment. The Colonel produced a cigar and worried at the tip in thought.

He reviewed everything he knew about the Jamestown cult, thinking of their trip to the compound just miles from the Oregon border. Amy had written up the initial capture story. He tried to remember the article. His thoughts were interrupted by a slurred voice from the back.

"Sciurus carolinensis, the common gray squirrel. They have a habit of calling to one another by "barking" or making a series of sounds that end in a sort of snarl, often distinctly audible for up to an eighth of a mile. Colonel, you really shouldn't let it chew on your hair. It'll make the ends split."

Hannibal grinned, turned in his seat and spoke authoritatively to his doped up pilot.

"Murdock, do you remember the article Amy wrote on Martin James capture?"

The Captain straightened a bit, tried to focus his eyes. In an astounding impersonation of famous newscaster Walter Cronkite, he sonorously began.

"Redwood, California. Late Thursday afternoon, at the home of Jackson County farmer Tim Coulton and his daughter, Carolyn ..."

"Skip that part, Murdock." Hannibal interrupted. "We know it. We were there. Jump to the back history on Martin James."

"Martin James, known as Reverend James to his followers, purchased the land for the Jamestown compound five years ago. Born in 1941 to Dr. Arthur James and his wife, Francis, Martin's father was a pioneer in the pharmaceuticals industry. Both parents died in the crash of a small private plane in 1975. Martin James was left with a 5.5 million dollar inheritance which he liquidated into cash. There is no record of where the money is now, although local real estate agent Marty Higgs stated that the Jamestown compound was paid for in cash. Previous to the purchase of the compound and his self-appointed status as "Reverend", Martin James was a 1963 graduate of the University of California, Berkeley, with a twin degree in Psychology and Philosophy. Little is known about his activities following graduation."

B.A. was astonished.

"How you 'member all that!" The Captain simply gave his friend a slightly cross-eyed look and replied evenly.

"Because Amy wrote it, B.A. I read everything she writes." He grinned. "I'm sleepy now." The long-limbed man promptly curled up as best as possible in the bucket sleep and began to snore softly. Hannibal looked at the pilot fondly.

"He's something else, isn't he?"

"Yea, but I don't know what. And you're carryin' him in, Hannibal!"

~~~aaaAAAaaa~~~

The Reverend was furious. Not only had his men come back without the lunatic pilot, but by now Baracus would have been warned off of the impending ambush in the morning. All he had to show for two months of efforts lay in a limp heap before him. Granted, it had taken that long to track the wily Lieutenant down, but it was not the results he had wanted, nor expected. It had taken many, many trips to countless nightclubs and bars before they had hit pay dirt. It was true that Peck's photo had been recognized elsewhere, but not as a consistent customer. Only when they had approached the bartender at Deadwood Dick's had they gotten lucky. He recognized the young man as one of the steadies, a woman named Bonita's, latest love, providing the information that the couple had become somewhat regular in their appearances at the nightclub.

That was the break James had been waiting for. Captain Murdock's whereabouts where well known. Intimidation, violence and bribery had given him the location of B.A. Baracus. It was a shame that the military was too soft to use such methods. They would have secured their prey long ago if they had. Martin James had been astonished to discover that the infamous A-Team had been the instruments of his downfall. He was determined to bring about theirs.

Then things began to slip. First the woman reporter, Amy Allen, had left town before the plan could be set into motion. Now this. He would just have to salvage what he could. The plan could still work. Instead of three hostages to bring in one, it would have to be one hostage to bring in three. It could still work.

He kicked the still form and was gratified when it stirred. Two blue eyes opened slowly and peered about in blurry confusion. The Reverend was impatient.

"Get up, sinner, and face your future."

Face moaned, bringing his bound hands up to scrub at his face as the image of his captor became clearer.

"Oh Fuck. I definitely must be in Hell if you're here."

Martin James turned an alarming shade of red.

"You blaspheme! You mock the Hand of God!" Reaching down he gathered a handful of the blonde man's shirt, hauled him to his knees and backhanded him smartly across the mouth. He was pleased to see the blood that burbled over his prisoners lips. Calm again, Reverend James smiled. "You will be my lamb upon the alter, sinner. You will bring me the demons of my torment. Brother John, set the video camera up and prepare our lamb, here." With another blow that made Face's nose erupt with a flow of blood, he stepped back and let the groggy Lieutenant slide back to the floor.

~~~aaaAAAaaa~~~

Hannibal yawned and stretched. It had been a very long night. He had tried to stretch out on the couch but knew from the beginning that it was a futile gesture. Worry and frustration had eaten at him too voraciously to allow for sleep. Inaction left too much time for contemplation; something Hannibal disliked intensely. He preferred fast and furious activity rather than the slow, torpifying introspection that had plagued him during the lonely, small hours of the morning. He was frightened. It was a feeling that he hated. He knew the feeling, even acknowledged it, but loathed having to dissect it. Inactivity and time forced him to stare it down whether he wanted to or not. Thoughts of his missing Lieutenant were uppermost in his mind, nibbling at the corners of his reason, threatening to overbalance his logic. He had to actively fight his distress over Face, knowing that reason and planning were called for, not sentiment. Emotions made a person, a team, sloppy and that would get Face killed. It was damned hard, though, to contain the terror over a loved one's fate.

Then there was the trepidation over Martin James. Hannibal was astute enough to realize that he feared the man. He'd never admit it publicly, of course, but the zealot down right scared the Colonel. Hannibal was used to dealing with people who had understandable goals. Military ambitions were his forte. Greed he understood. Revenge was a simple motivater, as was love, hate or fear. But the mind of a mad man terrified Smith. He felt unsure of himself when dealing with James. Like walking on quicksand. There was no one sure way when going up against an unstable mind. No visible path through the minefield of James' convoluted thoughts. The Colonel felt uncertainty claw at him. Another deadly emotion. Worry and self doubt. A very long night, indeed.

Hannibal heard the shower turn on in the bathroom down the hall and knew that B.A. was up. When the large man joined him a few moments later, the Colonel was already fixing breakfast. From the haggard expression on the black man's face, Hannibal knew B.A. had been fighting his own battles during the night. As the two men sat down to eat, Murdock limped stiffly from the direction of Hannibal's bedroom. His pale features were drawn in pain, making the raw scrapes on his face stand out in stark relief. He eased himself gingerly into one of the chairs, carefully arranging the sling that held his casted arm so that it would not bump the table.

"I think I'm going to need one of those pain pills, B.A."

The Sergeant nodded silently and dug into the bag from the hospital. Murdock looked at his commanding officer.

"Please tell me you have a plan, Colonel. Facey is in it big time if that psycho has him."

Hannibal pushed his scrambled eggs around aimlessly.

"I wish I did, Murdock, but I don't even know where to start looking. James is too smart to go back to the Redwood compound. He wants something, or someone, namely me, and I'm betting that he's going to try to use Face as bait. He'll have to contact us if that's the case. At the moment, that's all I've got to go on. Amy is looking into a few things that may give us some more information but right now our only option is to sit tight." He grimaced, thoughts returning to the endless merry-go-round of his wee hour contemplations. Murdock nodded unhappily.

After they had made a pretense of eating, B.A. cleared the remains of their meal and declared that it was time for Murdock's scrapes to be bathed and anointed with antibiotic gel. Hannibal would have been amused at the big man's unusually solicitous and gentle ways this morning if he could have found it in him to smile. He couldn't. They settled in to wait impatiently for Amy's call.

It came just past 10:00 a.m. Hannibal put the call on the speaker phone. Amy's voice came through tinny and tired sounding.

"Hi guys. It took a little work and some favors but I think I've managed to round up all the information available. Since I was in Strykersville with you guys during the trial I didn't cover it, but I know you read the accounts of it like I did. I don't think any of us were surprised when Martin James was sentenced to the State Psychiatric Hospital.

Murdock interrupted, his voice taking on the classic Freudian Germanic lilt.

"Ze patient vas diagnosed as a paranoid schizophrenic vith delusions of grandeur." He snorted and resumed in his own voice.

"Hell, I could have told them that. Classic case! That's what makes him so damned charismatic. He really, truly believes in the stuff he says. What else?"

"Well, as you also know, most of the others that were with him had an easier time of it. Seems the court had a hard time getting anyone to come forward to testify, remember?

B.A.s face became thunderous.

"Yea. Farmer Coulton and his daughter, Carolyn, backed out, didn't they. Right after they're barn mysteriously burnt down. An' only two of them girls testified. Sheila Rogers and some other little girl. Said James an some other guy was doin' things to them!" He scowled at the memory.

Amy sighed.

"That's right B.A. The other man did get jail time, but he was the only one. Most of James' men got off on technicalities or minor sentences because all the kids had voluntarily joined the group so they couldn't say they were coerced or kidnapped."

Hannibal shook his head.

"Yea. They were charged with False Imprisonment for not allowing the kids to leave voluntarily but they had a very good lawyer and, without any witnesses, they got off with mostly suspended sentences and fined. I really hated that, you know. I hate it every time we can't stick around and take care of the aftermath. I heard that the kids were either too afraid or the parents just wanted to put it all behind them. It's very frustrating, Amy. I'm sure you know that. Face wondered why none of the boys ever came forward. After all we went through, you would have thought that at least one of them would have testified. Or that the parents would have wanted something done. The two girls did, but in the end it wasn't enough. We didn't do enough." Hannibal shook his head in frustration. Murdock put a hand on his shoulder.

"We can only do what we're able to under the circumstances. You know that, Colonel." The white haired man nodded.

"Go on, Amy."

"One of the minor acolytes said Martin James came down to the slum district and recruited his muscle by promising good pay and food for anyone willing to 'follow the way'. As we saw six months ago, he didn't have much trouble rounding up his muscle and in fact, at least two of the men were quite devoted. The family money came in real handy. Here's the real kicker, though. This wasn't in the papers and it cost me a dinner date with my informant so you owe me big time. My friend, a reporter on the police beat, said Martin James was pretty despondent during the trial, saying that he couldn't dream anymore. He was actually very docile. The only thing he seemed to be interested in at the time was asking Lynch and the other M.P.s almost as many questions about you guys as they asked him. They had no doubt that you were there. They showed up soon after the National Guard arrested him and his followers."

Murdock spoke up again.

"Gee, ya think? Maybe it was the big, white 'A-TEAM' letters on the Coulton's roof?" B.A. just rolled his eyes.

"Shut up, fool! Let her finish."

"Anyway, no one thought he posed much of a risk and he was put into a medium security ward at the State Hospital. Two months ago he just walked out. He evidently bribed one of the hospital orderlies, a Dave Craig, to help him escape because they haven't seen this guy since. Some drugs, tranquilizers and a tranq gun also disappeared so the authorities are thinking that this Dave Craig went with James. It fits in with what you found in Face's car. Hannibal, I'm catching the first plane back to LA"

"No, Amy. I want you to stay there. I don't think it's safe for you back here. If James is trying to take us down, I'm betting you were originally part of the plan. The fact that you went out of town may just have saved your ass."

"But..."

"No 'buts', young lady. Have I made myself clear?" Hannibal scowled at the speaker as if his young friend could see him through it. He could hear a heavy sigh.

"OK, Hannibal, but you have to keep me informed. I'll go crazy otherwise."

"We'll call when we can. Right now we're playing a waiting game, too. James has got to make a move soon and, with your information, I think I've got the first glimmerings of a plan."

~~~aaaAAAaaa~~~

The phone rang again at half past four that afternoon. Mr. Lee, the kindly Chinese gentleman that Hannibal sometimes impersonated, informed them that a man dressed as a monk had dropped off a video tape. The Colonel sent B.A. to the laundry to pick it up.

Murdock was pacing restlessly by the time the Sergeant returned. The pilot knew that B.A. had taken extra precautions and extremely circuitous routes both to and from the laundry to safeguard their privacy but, between the pain from his injuries and the worry over Face, the lanky Texan's nerves were frayed to the breaking point.

"It's about God damned time, B.A. We were beginning to think Lynch had caught up with you."

"Shut up, Fool. Ya know what I was doin' and Lynch catchin' me? That'll be the day." The black man glared at the slender pilot. Hannibal broke in.

"Cut it out, you two. We can't let this start to get to us. We've got a long road ahead of us and we need to keep our heads. B.A., let's see what's on this tape."

The three men gathered around the video cassette recorder, watching the tape turn from white snow to a view from the inside of a house. From the architectural style Hannibal surmised that it was most likely an older home in the farmhouse fashion, empty, slightly run down, probably deserted or up for rent.

A dozen men in brown, hooded robes knelt in supplication upon the floor. Lined up in three rows of four, they were all bent forward at the waist with hands clasped in prayer under them and foreheads barely touching the floor. Hoods drawn, not a single man was identifiable but Hannibal was sure that they were probably the dregs of society, hired off the streets of the rougher sections of LA

Martin James, looking little different from his appearance six months before, stepped in front of the camera.

"Colonel Smith, I presume?" The man's eyes glittered black and manic. "I have been looking forward to meeting you again. I must admit that I was surprised to learn who you were from your military colleagues, but no matter. You may be soldiers in the service of the Devil, but I am a soldier in the service of the Lord." The Reverend began to pace back and forth before the supplicants.

"I dreamed about our meeting, Colonel. I have dreamed . . . many dreams. They come again. I breath them in, my dreams. They are my wine and bread. You are there, Colonel, in my visions, my dreams. You and your unholy band of demons." The grin splashed across James' face was chilling. B.A. sighed and shook his head.

"He more dangerous than ever, Hannibal." The older man simply nodded silently without taking his eyes off the screen. The Reverend had stopped pacing and was facing the camera. His voice became sonorous, compelling.

" 'He shall not fail nor be discouraged, till he have set judgment in the earth: and the isles shall wait for his law.' You were told that there is no appeal from my justice. You will submit to me."

Murdock snorted. "Really out of touch with reality, isn't he?" The three men watched intently as the dark-haired man in the video walked to one of the supplicants kneeling in the first row. With a quick, angry jerk, James reached beneath the man's hood, grabbed a handful of hair and pulled the "monk" to a sitting position.

"Oh Fuck." Hannibal breathed low. Templeton Peck rocked back onto his heels in the video tape; fresh, red blood streamed from his nose and battered mouth. His half-lidded eyes were glazed and dilated, obviously a combination of tranquilizers and brutality. Hannibal could hear the harsh breathing of his two companions as they all stared at their barely conscious colleague. James shook Face's head slightly, like a rat terrier with a favorite toy.

"You will be at the public phone booth on the corner of Sunset and Vine at 9:00 a.m. tomorrow morning. Wait for a call. If you don't pick up, at 9:05 your friend will be dead." His voice rose as he shook the captive vigorously. " 'Remember, therefore, how thou has received and heard, and hold fast, and repent. If therefore thou shalt not watch, I will come on thee as a thief, and thou shalt not know what hour I will come for you'!"

The video abruptly ended.

"Revelations. Why do the religious ones always quote out of the Book of Revelations?" Murdock murmured into the silence. B.A. switched the machine off. The two younger men turned to look expectantly at their commanding officer. Hannibal remained silent, lost in thought. When he finally spoke, his voice was tired and soft.

"I know what he's doing. He's going to string us along phone booth to phone booth until he's got us where he wants us. That way we are kept off balance, no way to plan ahead. No reconnaissance." He paused, then smiled slowly, a spark beginning to grow in his eye.

"Well, we'll just have to shift the balance back to our favor, won't we? Somehow we've got to keep at least one of us on the outside. Maybe, if we're really lucky, we can arrange two on the outside." The older man was grinning openly now, his eyes dancing. Murdock and B.A. exchanged glances. Hannibal turned to his Sergeant.

"B.A., you've still got the tracking equipment in the van?"

"Yea?"

"Good. My guess is that they'll make us ditch the van at some point and take us in their own vehicles. We need to be able to follow. Where would be a good place to stash the homing device on me?" They thought carefully for moment before Murdock spoke up.

"The heel of your boot?"

Hannibal shook his head. "No, too much chance to step in a puddle or jiggle it and short it out. Besides, these guys seem to have a 'thing' about footwear."

"Can't use your pockets, they'll check them first thing. Can't sew it into the seams of your clothes. It's too bulky." B.A. pondered aloud. Hannibal took a fresh cigar from his pocket, placed it into his mouth, then quickly withdrew it again to contemplate the long cylindrical object.

"B.A., could you get one to fit inside a cigar? Even if it was taken off me it would still stay with the group, I'm betting."

"Ain't never been done before in that shape. They's square." Hannibal's face fell. B.A. continued. "Don't mean I can't do it, man. Just said it ain't never been done before. I'll tear one apart and redesign it into a long, skinny shape. Course I can do it!" He angrily plucked the cigar out of the older man's hand and stalked off toward the van and his tool kit. Hannibal and Murdock could hear him muttering as he went.

~~~aaaAAAaaa~~~

Face slowly opened his eyes. His head pounded and his mouth felt as if fungus had taken up residence in it but he was clear headed for the first time in hours. He vaguely remembered his brief conversation with James, being manhandled into a brown robe and positioned on the floor. His limbs had felt heavy and sluggish as had his head. There had been yelling and lights, a fist clamping about his hair, jerking him upright. More angry, buzzing words had followed before he was dragged away and dumped unceremoniously in a cold, dark room. He had promptly drifted into oblivion.

Now, struggling to a sitting position, Face had the opportunity to take stock of his situation with his reason more or less intact. He was in a windowless concrete room. Judging by the temperature and humidity, the blonde decided it was probably below ground. Dim light showing around and under a poorly fitted wooden door revealed dark, blackened ceiling joists above him. A small, metallic circle with a red Texaco star glinted in one corner. The young man pooled all the facts and decided he was most likely in an old coal room in the basement of an older home.

Raising himself gingerly to his feet, cramped muscles protesting, the Lieutenant moved to the door and attempted to peer through the crack surrounding the ill fitted door. He brought his bound hands up to steady himself and put his eye to the crack of the door jamb. Two men stood on the other side. From their stances, they had been there for awhile. Guards, obviously. He looked beyond to what was quite apparently an unfinished basement with old, wooden stairs leading up. At that moment, a pair of feet, then legs, came into view descending those stairs. The rest of Martin James rapidly followed. Face retreated to the far corner of the coal room.

The Lieutenant stood with his back to the wall as his captor entered.

"Ah. I see you are awake." James smiled at Face. The young man's skin crawled but he plastered an insincere smile on his face despite himself.

"Yes. Seems I missed my morning wake up call. Could you have someone draw me a bath? I seem to be a bit disheveled this morning." Face indicated his blood caked visage. The Reverend scowled.

"I remember your smart mouth, young man. You have the tongue of a serpent. Yes. I saw that, too. Lion maned and forked tongue. Hell will have punishment enough for you."

Face rolled his eyes at the older man and moaned fretfully. "I don't think you have to worry about that. Have you any idea how pissed off Bonita is going to be at me for leaving her at the club like that? 'Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned', right? So she'll punish me for you. You're really cramping my style here, you know, so if you could just direct me to check out, I think I'll be leaving . . . "

"SILENCE!"

Face widened his blue eyes in mock surprise at the other man's anger and took the opportunity to inch unobtrusively to his left. His captor continued.

"I care not for your harlot's ways or feelings. You lie, steal and whore about and yet I would reclaim you for the Lord if I could." James looked into Faces' startled eyes with an intensity that chilled the younger man. He felt frozen to the spot, as if pinned there by the force of that manic gaze. James moved closer, his eyes boring into the blonde man's skull.

"You are not beyond redemption. I could save you. 'If they sin against thee, and thou be angry with them, and deliver them to the enemy, so that they carry them away captives into the land of the enemy, far or near; Yet if they shall bethink themselves in the land whither they were carried captives, and repent, and make supplication unto thee, saying We have sinned and have done perversely, we have committed wickedness;' " The Reverend was standing only inches from the younger man, his eyes blazing. Face had ceased his inching toward the door and seemed rooted to the spot, his breathing quick and shallow, his eyes wide. James continued in the same mesmerizing, sing song voice.

" 'And so return unto thee with all their heart, and with all their soul, in the land of their enemies. Then hear thou their prayer and their supplication in heaven and forgive thy people'. Join me, Templeton Peck. Sit at my right hand. I will give you power and riches. We shall build a new world together." Dark eyes met with bright, blue as Martin James smiled again, oily and evil.

Face stared into the face a mere three inches from his own. His mind raced as his heart beat a trip-hammer tattoo in his chest. He would pretend to go along with James. It was a simple con, already set up and ripe for the picking. He would submit, play repentant and adoring acolyte. At the first opportunity he would flee this raving madman who scared the bejeezus out of him. It would be easy. So easy. As long as he didn't look too long into those eyes.

Face opened his mouth to speak, to accept James' proposal. Before he could utter a word, however, the sudden image of kindly, patient, loving Father McGill appeared in the young man's head.

"No."

Face was as surprised as Martin James when that word popped out, but it felt right. The Lieutenant had never flouted, nor indeed lived, his religious beliefs. Actually, he rather conveniently ignored them at will, but they were none the less deeply ingrained in the Catholic boy turned man. He spoke with stronger conviction, amazed that he, Templeton Peck, was taking this particular stand.

"No. You are a perversion against everything I was raised to believe in. You twist The Word to suit your needs and warp the meanings behind them. No way in Hell would I willingly stay near someone as foul as you, you raving lunatic."

The hands that clamped about his throat were strong and relentless. Finely honed survival techniques kicked in and Face swung his bound hands sharply upwards between the arms of this tormentor. The death hold around his throat broke and the blonde brought his fisted hands down on top of James' head, driving it into the conman's raised knee. The Reverend dropped like a rock.

Face spun toward the door, only to come up short against the muzzles of two AK-47's pointed straight at his head. The guards from outside glared menacingly at him, backing him once more into the corner. Martin James stirred and painfully shook himself awake. Rising, he fingered his sore jaw as he contemplated the man before him. His words, when they finally came, were cold and harsh.

"Our sinner needs to contemplate the error of his ways. Strip him to the waist. Take his shoes and socks and bind him to the oak tree in the front yard. Perhaps a night in the fresh air will cool his anger. Unfortunately, I still need him."

Face, freed from his bonds, reluctantly shed the warm monks robe, his shirt and footwear. Clad only in his jeans, he was prodded out the door and up the cement steps to the outside. The day was overcast, a fine drizzle sifting from the clouds. The Lieutenant estimated that is was late afternoon. Several other acolytes appeared, all armed, from outbuildings that lay about what looked to have been a family farm at one time. Now it simply looked sad and forlorn, buildings sagging and in need of paint. The house Face and his captors had come from was large, two storied and many windowed. The young man was dismayed to see the acres and acres of flat farmland around them. No cover. Either for him or anyone coming to his rescue. The only tree in sight was the one he was led to, some twenty five yards from the house. Large and old it spread huge limbs in every direction. Face was backed against the tree, his hands once again bound securely with heavy rope, this time behind and around the tree.

Martin James placed himself in front of the bound man.

" 'For the upright shall dwell in the land, and the perfect shall remain in it. But the wicked shall be cut off from the earth, and the transgressors shall be rooted out of it.' You have turned away from me, Templeton, and I will root you out like a weed. But first I must bring your friends to me."

Reverend James and his followers turned their backs and walked back to the house, leaving Face to his own thoughts in the cold, drizzling rain.

~~~aaaAAAaaa~~~

B.A. tinkered with the delicate equipment of the homing device. Solder gun and tiny jewelers tools lay nearby. His large, sausage like fingers moved delicately, surely over the minute wires and connections. The furrow between his brows bespoke his concentration.

Murdock moved quietly up to observe. It was fascinating, really. Like watching a painter paint or a sculptor sculpt. He craned his neck a little more to see better, unknowingly placing his head between B.A. and the florescent light above.

"Crazyman, get out of the light 'fore I break your nose!"

Murdock jerked back. "Sorry, B.A. Just wanted to see how it was goin'."

"It's goin'! Now git outta my way, Fool! Always pesterin' me when I'm trying to work. Can't you do somethin' useful?"

"Hey, Mudsucker! I was useful enough to warn your sorry ass and keep you from walkin' into a trap at the Youth Center, now wasn't I? Huh? Yea. Don't see you thankin' me for that, now do I?" The pilot thrust his chin out, eyes sparking angrily. B.A. set his tools carefully aside and rose, fists balled at his side.

"Shut up, Crazy Fool. You all busted up now, too. How you gonna help like this?" The large man gestured to Murdock's broken arm and oozing scrapes. The Texan stepped forward and pushed his face close to the black man's.

"You just worry about workin' miracles with that homing beacon and let me worry about how useful I can be." They glared at each other for a moment more before B.A. broke the contact and sat down heavily again. He looked vacantly at his tools. Murdock felt the anger drain out of him as understanding dawned. He hesitantly placed a hand on his friends massive shoulder before speaking softly.

"I know B.A. I'm scared for him, too. I'm worried for all of us, but it's eatin' at me that Face is out there alone."

B.A. looked away, nodding.

"They's hurtin' him, Crazyman. I know it. Ain't nothin' I can do to help." He replied softly. "They hurt you, too. I got a rage in me and it scares me sometimes. Don' know what to do with it. Can't help my bruthas. Just sit around and wait. Don' like it. Don' like it at all."

"None of us like it, B.A. But we gotta go with the flow for now. You keep workin' on that transmitter. Right now that could be the difference between life and death for all of us." B.A. sat up a bit straighter, determined. Murdock continued. "I'll go back and see if I can help Hannibal. He's trying to cover all the bases. Think of all the scenarios. Maybe I can think up a few crazy ones. After all, maybe it takes a crazy mind to catch a crazy mind."

"You ain't nothin' like James' type o' crazy, Murdock! Don' you even think to try. You a special kind of crazy.

He . . . he's just plain twisted in a dark kind of way. My Momma says 'Evil is as Evil does'. Never made no sense to me till I met that man."

Murdock nodded. There were places in himself he dare not look. He didn't like to think of them. They were black, blasted, contorted voids left behind long ago. He would not willingly look into those terrifying places. Perhaps . . . not even to help Face. He hoped he wouldn't have to find out. He started to move away when the doorbell brought both men to abrupt attention. B.A. leapt to his feet, motioning the Captain to silent stillness. Moving quickly and surely to the door, plucking a handgun off his workbench as he went, the Sergeant positioned himself next to the door. Carefully stretching forward, B.A. glanced through the peephole . . . and uttered an oath before slamming the door wide open.

"Amy! What you doin' here! Hannibal . . "

"Move it, B.A. You're blocking the door." Amy Allen pushed calmly past the blustering man. Hannibal rounded the corner, coming from the living room.

"What the Hell are you doing here? I thought I told you to stay in Washington!" Amy eyed the angry, silver haired man in exasperation.

"Last time I checked I was still a private citizen here in the United States and, correct me if I'm wrong, Hannibal, but allowed to move about the country as I please. And I know you must hate this, too, but you can't court martial me for disobeying orders, either." The slender, dark haired woman moved past the flabbergasted B.A. and the seething Colonel into the living room. Murdock had followed the proceedings with glee.

"God, don'tcha just love it when she gets on her high horse like that? Just makes me tingle all over!" He bounded after the disappearing reporter, an Aretha Franklin song bursting from his mouth.

"R-E-S-P-E-C-T, find out what it means to me . . ."

Hannibal sighed and followed the pair. "Women. Can't live with 'em. Can't kill 'em."

B.A. followed, grumbling. By the time they had all gathered in the living room, however, Hannibal, as was his nature, was beginning to see the positive aspects of the situation. Murdock, now in quiet conversation with the slender woman, looked up as the silver haired man walked in.

"Amy wants to see the tape, Colonel."

Hannibal nodded and the pilot popped the tape in. They once again watched as the lunatic they thought was safely put away ranted at them, then jerked Templeton Peck's blood stained face up for them to see. The older man watched carefully as Amy's face drained of color. He nodded approvingly to himself as her face turned angry, then determined. Yes. This might work out after all. The reporter turned to her friends.

"I want in, and I don't care what you say. I know I was terrified when we last faced Martin James, and I don't deny that he scares me now, but I've come a long way since then and you know it." She watched as Hannibal and B.A. slowly nodded. Murdock was grinning again and singing softly to himself.

"Sock-it-to-me-sock-it-to-me-sock-it-to-me-sock-it-to-me..."

~~~aaaAAAaaa~~~

A sound roused Face from his stupor. He raised his head, straightened, and looked about warily. The drizzle had tapered off around midnight, he estimated, and the clouds had moved away, giving way to a crescent moon surrounded by faint star shine. It was probably around two or three a.m. by now, he mused. He couldn't be sure, of course, but it just "felt" like that time of the morning. He'd had plenty of experience in the wee hours to know the feel of it.

He shifted, shrugging his shoulders to ease the strain, tugging fitfully at the bonds around his wrists. His jeans were clammy and cold on his legs, his flesh lightly dimpled in the cool night air. The conman tried to ignore it. He had endured far worse. Even tied, standing with his back against the rough bark of the tree, he had managed to doze off and on, catching what rest he could, Hannibal's lectures on survival running through his head.

The noise came again from behind him, a rustle of cloth, a sigh. The Lieutenant froze, straining his ears. He didn't have to wait long. Brother John came into view, his shaggy, unkempt, dishwater blonde hair a paler patch in the moonlight. He gazed at Face.

"It's my turn at guard duty, now till breakfast." He stated conversationally, moving closer to the conman. The prisoner remained silent. The brown robed man looked the slender blonde in the eye for a long moment, eyes gleaming strangely in the diffuse light, before dropping his gaze slowly, slowly down the prisoners well toned form. Face's eyes widened. A chill not borne of the night air crawled over his skin. Brother John licked his lips hungrily.

"You're older than I usually like them but you'd never know it by looking at your body. You're beautiful," he reached out to touch an old scar on the conman's shoulder, "and exciting. I don't think I'll have to worry about you going to the cops to testify, either."

Face's thoughts raced in panic, remembering bits and pieces of newspaper accounts of the trial and his comments to Hannibal about the lack of boys coming forward. He now knew why. The empty, shell-shocked eyes of the young men in the compound at Redwood. The fear in their faces. "Brother" John had been preying on them, savoring a banquet of young flesh, all available for his choosing. Martin James had preyed on a few of the girls. John had preyed on the boys, then threatened them with further abuse and humiliation if they testified. No wonder he was so loyal to James. The good Reverend had provided the sex offender with easy pickings.

John stepped up to Face, letting his fingers trail down the lightly defined pectoral muscles of the blonde man's chest, down over the rib cage and onto the flat, hard belly. He leaned into the Lieutenant, taking a sudden lick of the damp, dimpled skin. Face shuddered, the revulsion almost overwhelming. There was no way out of this, what was about to happen to him.

John's hand wandered down to Face's crotch, found what he was seeking through the damp jeans and began to squeeze. The conman clenched his teeth tightly, determined not to scream his disgust. Bile rose in the back of his throat as rage rose in his heart. He could not, would not, endure this violation, not after all that he had withstood and survived in the P.O.W. camp.

Brother John opened the front of his robe, revealing fish white, naked skin underneath. He pressed himself up against the bound man, caressing, pinching, licking. Face let him. When John clamped vicious teeth around his nipple and bit hard enough to draw blood, Face remained steadfast. Other bites followed, rough hands clutched and fondled. Face ignored it. Only when John forced his tongue into the blonde man's mouth did Face falter. The probing tongue, plunging in and out of his mouth, sucking cruelly on his tongue, nearly broke the Lieutenant's resolve. Thoughts of the countless victims before him brought him strength.

Finally, John drew back, breathless, aroused, his eyes aflame with desire. Face smiled seductively.

"You're pretty good with that tongue. I can think of someplace else where it would be even more appreciated."

John closed his eyes momentarily in bliss, licking his lips. He reached for the snap at the top of the conman's jeans.

"Now, now! Where's your sense of adventure?" Face chided good-naturedly. John paused, confused. Face gave him a smoldering look.

"You're tongue. It's . . . very talented. Like a living thing. It's driving me wild! Please, let it find it's way to the target. Make it last. Don't just plunge in. I want this to be good for both of us." The conman raked his abuser with a lustful gaze. John smiled again, bringing his tongue up to lick the side of the Lieutenant's face, then trailing a line of saliva toward his collarbone, where he left another vicious, bloodletting nip. Face moaned, pain masked as pleasure. He gulped and squeezed his eyes shut as he felt that tongue sliding, slithering lower, lower, down his belly, across the fine, blonde, baby hairs that led from his navel down past his waistband. He felt the thud in the dirt when John dropped to his knees in front of his pelvis. He couldn't look now. Couldn't look.

When he felt the snap come undone on his jeans, the Lieutenant braced his back against the tree and pulled the rope around it as taut as possible, forcing it to bite brutally into his wrists. When the zipper shuddered down, tooth by tooth, Face tensed his legs.

John gazed at the lightly curling, blond pubic hair that peeked out from the open V in the jeans. His treasure lay just out of sight. He grinned, noticing the absence of any underwear.

"Hey, you go commando!" The voice that answered him was strangely distant and cold.

"Yea, well, I had other plans last night." Then strong, athletic legs were wrapped about the acolytes neck, as swift as a cobra's strike. Ankles locked, hips swiveled sharply, knees jerked and the bones in Brother John's neck parted. The robed man slid silently into a limp puddle of limbs, eyes wide, mouth open. His breath would not come, his chest would not rise, his arms, legs would not serve him. Mouth working soundlessly, he stared in horror at the bound man above him who never, ever looked down. The light slowly faded from John's eyes, his bowels released and his heart stopped.

Templeton Peck stared unseeingly at the stars, tears coursing down his cheeks, whispering brokenly.

"Hail Mary, full of Grace. The Lord art with Thee. Blessed art thou among women and blessed is the Fruit of Thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death. Amen. Hail Mary, full of Grace . . . "

~~~aaaAAAaaa~~~

Amy padded barefoot into the living room. She had the beginnings of a good sized headache and, not knowing where Hannibal kept his medicines, knew she had a stash of aspirin in her purse. She passed Murdock, snoring ever so lightly on the couch and spotted her quarry on the far side of the coffee table. The reporter paused, spotting a small, orange glow from the corner of her eye. Turning her head, she spied the faint, dark outline of a body on the "balcony", little more than a concrete shelf with a railing, if truth be told. The soft glow from the lit end of a cigar briefly flared again and Amy changed directions toward the sliding glass balcony doors. The aspirin could wait for a few more minutes. She slid one of the doors silently aside and sidled up to the standing man, the aromatic fragrance of the cigar smoke greeting her on the damp night air.

"Morning." Amy murmured softly. Hannibal glanced down at the slender woman, her features soft in the pre dawn light. He turned back to his contemplation of the lightening sky. The very faintest tinge of pink stained the lowest edge of the horizon, seen over the rooftops of the LA buildings. He studied the gradations of the light along the pink line, fading to lavender to purple to indigo blue to black and took another slow pull on the cigar. Amy studied the Colonel.

"Have you slept at all?"

He smiled down at her then. "A little."

The reporter nodded, looking out into the far distance again.

"Hannibal, there's something I didn't tell you over the phone or last night. I . . . I didn't want to say anything in front of Murdock or B.A." She saw that she had the Colonel's undivided attention now. "My reporter friend said that one of the boys from the Jamestown Compound committed suicide about a month after the trial. Evidently he left a note that boiled down to the fact that he had been repeatedly raped by one of the Brothers at the compound. He didn't say who but he said he couldn't live with the memories and the knowledge that 'He' was still out there. I don't know if this man went back to James or, if he did, whether he could be a danger to Face or not but I thought you should know."

Hannibal closed his eyes for a moment before focusing them back on Amy.

"Thanks for telling me. I don't think it's something we'll have to worry about but I'll keep it in mind. Face can take care of himself. He's been through tougher situations and come out the other side." He smiled at her reassuringly. She smiled back, patted his hand upon the railing and slipped back into the confines of the high rise apartment. Hannibal turned back once again to watch the coming dawn, frowning, lost in memories of times best forgotten.

~~~aaaAAAaaa~~~

The beauties of a bright, new morning seemed so incongruous to Face. The sun, just above the horizon, cast a golden glow around everything as birds sang greetings to the new day with unbounded enthusiasm. It all seemed such a cruel mockery to the exhausted man. He was stiff, sore, cold, hungry and thirsty. The rain of the previous evening had provided some moisture, caught in a mouth held open to the weeping heavens, but now he was parched. His eyes were crusty, bloodshot and red-rimmed from tears and sleeplessness. The conman tried to avoid looking at the corpse laying at his feet. He had come to a kind of grim, fatalistic acceptance about the event but he still could not bring himself to look into those dead, staring, accusing eyes. When he finally heard a pair of feet approaching through the tall grass he carefully arranged his features into a blank mask. It wouldn't do to show weakness in the presence of the enemy.

Brother Stephen and Brother Benny looked around curiously. They had expected to find Brother John guarding the prisoner. It was time to relieve him and water the captive. As they came around the far side of the large tree they drew up short. Their prisoner glared balefully at them, bound, bruised, disheveled, jeans slung low on his lean hips and zipper down. The bloody, obviously human bites on his torso caused Benny's eyes to widen in alarm and Stephen's to narrow suspiciously. Another step revealed the still heap of Brother John's body lying before Lieutenant Peck.

Brother Benny gasped in horror. Brother Stephen raised an eyebrow as he viewed the corpse with disgust. As one of Reverend James' original followers he was aware of John's predilections. Raising his eyes back to Face's, he nodded slightly.

"I'd heard about you Special Forces types and how you are supposed to know, like, 100 ways to kill a man. Must be at least part true."

Face's grin, feral and fey, never reached his eyes.

"Why don't you come over here and find out?" His voice was a croak, raspy and hoarse from thirst. Benny took a step back, then turned and fled toward the farmhouse. Stephen hefted the water jug he had brought, regarding the conman calmly.

"You want some of this, you'd better let me get close without any tricks."

Face eyed the water covetously for a moment before nodding his head in acquiescence. Stephen stepped around the body of his former "Brother" and lifted the jug to the blonde man's lips. Face gulped greedily, water trickling around the corners of his mouth to meander down his chest and disappear into the fabric of his jeans. When Stephen stepped back again the conman looked at him curiously.

"You don't seem too upset by all this."

Stephen shrugged. "He was a filthy pervert. I've known it for a long time. No big loss." They could hear people approaching in a hurry. "I'm afraid Reverend James won't feel the same way, however."

Martin James arrived in a rage, viewing the corpse of one of his most devoted acolytes with anguish.

"You whore mongering Son-of-a-Bitch! You have murdered one of my flock!"

Face eyed the black haired man with disgust.

"Look at me, James! He attacked me. Look at the marks. Just like he molested the innocent boys at your compound. He was sick! You think I would want something like this? I was protecting myself!"

Martin James was not to be swayed.

"You seduced him. Your serpent tongue and harlot body confused his mind and brought him close enough for you to assassinate him! You must pay!" His face had leeched from red to cold, white fury. " 'FOR THE WAGES OF SIN IS DEATH!' "

The world seemed to slow in the eyes of Templeton Peck, movements and words caught in amber as his heart pounded in triple time. As if in a dream the Lieutenant saw Martin James draw his pistol.

//Hail Mary, Full of Grace. The Lord art with Thee.//

The madman's eyes appeared to blaze as his lips drew back in a rictus of snarling hate.

//Blessed art Thou among women and Blessed is the Fruit of Thy womb, Jesus.//

A movement out of the corner of the conman's eye, Brother Stephen leaping toward James.

//Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now . . .//

The pistol leveled off and Face stared down the barrel, aligned straight between his eyes. Martin James squeezed the trigger.

//. . . and at the hour of our death. Amen.//

A hand slammed down on the Reverend's arm as the sharp report of the pistol echoed in the early morning air. Face felt a ripping, tearing explosion of pain blossom in his leg. An agonized, hoarse scream followed the pistol report into the surrounding countryside. The conman vaguely realized that it had come from him.

Reverend James turned angrily to the man who had spoiled his shot.

"Brother Stephen! Why did you rob me of the justice this man deserves? Has he warped your mind, too?" The half dozen acolytes who had accompanied James to the tree took a step toward Stephen. He raised his hand in supplication.

"Reverend James, please. I don't blame you for being angry with me, but right now we still need Peck alive to bring us the rest of the A-Team. They're smart. They'll want proof that he is still alive before coming to us. I know how much it means to you to punish them all. Especially their leader, Colonel Smith."

James paused, then nodded his head slowly, reluctantly.

"Yes. Yes, you are right." He murmured. "I'm sorry I doubted you, Brother Stephen. In my righteous anger . . . " The black clad Reverend took a deep breath to calm himself before turning to his acolytes. "Remove Brother John to one of the upstairs rooms and prepare his body. I will preside over a service for this loyal and good man tomorrow to properly honor him. He has served me well." He gestured to the captive, now slumping, half-conscious and bleeding profusely.

"Brother Stephen, bind his wound. We can't have him bleeding to death before his task is done, now can we? We shall save his punishment for a later date. It will be a fitting end for the crime. I will make sure of that." He glared murderously at the Lieutenant once more before turning on his heel and striding toward the farmhouse.

Stephen snagged one of the acolytes not currently lugging John's corpse to the house and sent him after a bed sheet, then stepped over to the gasping prisoner. The bullet had passed through the right leg about six inches above the knee and was bleeding fast and furious. The robed man looked up into the captives face and was surprised to see slitted, pain-filled blue eyes staring back at him.

"I thought you'd passed out."

"Wish." Face gasped. "Why . . . why'd you save me?"

Stephen snorted. "Don't be thinking I did it for you, Lieutenant. I did it for the money. It's always about the money. Once the rest of your team gets here I don't think they'll last too long against the good Reverend's "justice'". I wasn't looking for it but here you and your team just dropped in my lap. The military is offering a ten thousand dollar reward each for information leading to the arrest and conviction of the A-Team. Well, the arrest and conviction part will be a moot point when I show them where I "stumbled" across your bodies but the reward will be just as valid for closing the case. Nothin' personal. Just business." He smiled at the panting man. Face shook his head, trying to think of anything but the overwhelming pain radiating from his leg.

"Why are you with James? He. . . he can't be paying that good?"

"Oh, he doesn't. But I've got millions of reasons to stay."

The conman tried to wrap his muddled thoughts around that statement. He gritted his teeth as a fresh wave a pain overtook him, leaving him gasping and shaking. The blood was still flowing and he could feel himself getting light headed. The answer to Stephen's statement incongruously popped into his head. He spoke through clenched teeth.

"The . . . the millions that . . . that James inherited and turned into cash and stashed. That's what your after." He did a rapid calculation in his head. "Even with the expenses he's had, the compound, the men he's hired, he's . . . he's had slave labor and intimidation . . . to get some of his goods. He should . . . should still have around three million . . . or more left out there."

Stephen looked at the wounded man with something akin to respect.

"Very good, bright boy. Go to the head of the class! I'm getting closer and closer to figuring out where he keeps the cash and one of these days . . . Well, one of these days James will be just another homeless nut on a street corner shouting that the end is near." He chuckled. "Ain't going to do you any good knowing, though. James isn't going to believe a thing that comes out of your mouth. It's too bad, really. I kind of like you." Before Face could think of a retort the acolyte sent to find bandages returned with a dusty, tattered bed sheet. Stephen eyed it in disgust for a moment before shrugging and setting about the task of tearing it into strips. The conman watched the proceedings with trepidation. He was panting heavily now.

"You're . . . going to have to tie it very tight. I . . . I think the femurs been shattered, too." The thought of survival was uppermost in Face's mind now. Survive and hope to God that Hannibal had a damn good plan.

Stephen nodded and set about his task with care. The bullet had entered straight on in a small, neat hole but had exited the back of the leg slightly to the right and leaving a larger hole, suggesting that the blonde had been correct in assuming that the projectile had been deflected somewhat when it had hit something solid. In this case, a bone. He bound the strips of cloth tightly, causing the Lieutenant to bite his lip and stifle a moan. Face was leaning as far forward, now, as his bound arms would allow, his chin tucked almost to his chest and his hair hanging down as the sweat poured off his brow. Stephen worked as quickly as possible, trying to stanch the bleeding. He heard the captive cry out only once, when he had to shift the leg a bit but ignored it to continue at his task. When he was finished he looked up to see how Face was doing but saw that somewhere during the process, the blonde had passed out. Just as well. He wasn't willingly cruel. Just very greedy.

~~~aaaAAAaaa~~~

Murdock drained the dregs of his coffee, placed the cup in the sink and checked the time yet again. 0715. Five minutes after the last time he had checked. Hannibal entered the kitchen, followed closely by Amy. The pilot brightened.

"Hey, Chiquita, want some coffee?"

The reporter shook her head. "No thanks, Murdock. I'm nervous enough as it is." She pulled out a chair and sat down. "Is B.A. back? I didn't even hear him leave last night."

Hannibal leaned against the counter, arms folded.

"He left after he finished with the tracking cigar. I had him take a cab and pick up Face's Porsche. We're going to need it today."

Murdock handed Hannibal a cup of coffee which the older man gratefully accepted. He was tired. The jazz had a hard time making an appearance when one of his men found themselves in danger. Oh, not that it didn't happen at those times, but only when they were actually doing something. Waiting and worrying could kill the jazz faster than a cold shower stifled a hard on. He sipped thoughtfully on his coffee and watched Murdock mugging it up for Amy, trying to bring a smile to her weary face. The sound of the doorbell broke his thoughts.

Amy opened the door for B.A., who entered carrying a large duffel bag. The Colonel smiled. Now things would begin to move. They all gathered again in the kitchen, the silver haired man commanding the attention of the rest without even asking.

"I also had B.A. swing by the warehouse for a few things. Most of them have already been put in the van." He looked to the black man for acknowledgment. B.A. nodded and grumbled.

"That car of Face's is no good for haulin' things. Too small! I was eatin' my knees th' whole time I was drivin' it. But I think I got everythin'. I don't know what we gonna come up against, so I threw a little of everythin' in. Got two Colt M1911s, an Uzi, four M16s, the M60, " Hannibal smiled indulgently at the thought of his 'baby', and listened to B.A. as he continued. " one Stoner 63A1, a coupla Claymores, a dozen grenades, two tear gas canisters and both of Face's sniper rifles. Probably too much, but I'd rather have it than not. It's stored and locked in the van. I also checked out the first aid kit an' made sure we had a coupla blankets. The rest of the stuff you wanted is in there." He indicated the duffel on the floor.

Hannibal nodded in satisfaction as he began rooting around in the old, olive drab, army issue duffel.

"Nice, B.A. Very nice. Now, as I was saying, the cigar homer is finished and the tracker is in the van." He pulled an ordinary looking cigar from his shirt pocket and flourished it for a second before returning it to it's resting place. "Murdock, you and Amy will take the van. B.A. and I will take Face's Porsche. You've got the phone number for the mobile in it?"

Murdock nodded before asking. "How you going to explain the fact that I'm not with you, Hannibal? Martin said he wanted all of us."

The Colonel grinned his infamous I-know-the-answer-to-the-joke grin and fished out a small item from the bag.

"Leave that to me. Amy, I've got another of those transmitter buttons we used on that dirty S.W.A.T. team a few months back. I need you to sew it on my shirt. You'll be monitoring both the tracking device and the transmitter. Remember, you'll be able to hear me but I won't be able to hear you."

The young woman nodded quietly and reached for the specialized button. Hannibal gave it to her, carefully laid aside his cigars and proceeded to strip out of his shirt. He went on.

"If it works, I've got a plan to keep B.A. from going with me. That'll give you one more on the outside. If it doesn't work, though, I want you two to keep out of sight. Stay just within tracking and listening range until we end up where ever it is we are going. Scope out the situation. You know the drill, Captain. If at all possible, wait until night to make your move. Better cover. Amy, have you got any black clothes with you?"

"Some black jeans, black boots. That's all." The reporter scrunched up her face as she tried to recall exactly what she had packed when she left Washington. Hannibal placed his palm up, indicating that that was fine.

"We keep clothes stashed at the warehouse. I knew you wouldn't have cammos so I had B.A. bring some of Face's. If you have to sneak in during the daylight hours, you'll want to wear the camouflage gear. Just tighten the belt and his stuff should fit you fine. There's also a black turtleneck of his in the duffel as well. All black if you go in at night. Hopefully you won't need any of it and you can just drive in and swoop us up. Better to be prepared, though. Murdock?"

The pilot nodded as he searched for his own cammos and blacks. This was all standard operating procedure on the team's part. He knew the Colonel was going through most of it for Amy's sake. He looked up.

"Got it. You going armed? You know they'll search."

B.A. reached into the duffel and brought out two small, lightweight weapons, a Colt Detective Special revolver that Hannibal took and a COP Derringer pistol for himself. He proceeded to tuck the tiny weapon behind the large muscle belt he preferred to wear. The Colonel took his revolver, pulled up his pant leg and placed it into the top of his boot.

"They'd be stupid not to search and stupider still if they think we won't at least try to bring something in. They'll most likely find these, but just on the off chance that they don't . . ."

Amy swallowed hard and tried to smile. This was all so deadly serious. She'd been with the team on several missions, of course, but never one that was plotted out with such tactical skill. Usually they were flying by the seat of their pants, winging it through one of Hannibal's off the cuff plans. This one seemed more like a military maneuver with every contingency covered. It was chilling. She watched in fascination as B.A. slowly, methodically, almost ritualistically removed his gold chains, one at a time, and placed them carefully on the kitchen counter. The large man caught her watching him.

"Ain't goin' to let 'em take these offa me. Best to leave 'em here, anyway. If I go in with you an' Murdock, I need the silence. Make sure you keep my gear in th' van, hear?"

The reporter nodded carefully, then left to dig through her suitcase for her black jeans and boots. Murdock frowned and turned to Hannibal.

"You sure this is a good idea, takin' Amy with us? She looked a little green around the gills there."

Hannibal paused for a moment before answering.

"She chose her path, Captain. My father used to say 'if you're going to run with the big dogs you gotta piss in the tall grass.' Time for Miss Allen to see if she's really ready to run with the A-Team, Murdock."

 

~~~aaaAAAaaa~~~

At 8:50 a.m. the black Porsche containing Hannibal and B.A arrived at the corner of Sunset and Vine. The two men were tense as they waited for the minutes to tick by. Now that the action was upon them, Hannibal felt the familiar stirring in his veins. The rush, the heady Jazz. He was ready. He had been ready since the moment Murdock had first called him on the phone to let him know something was wrong. The Colonel glanced at the man in the drivers seat, more a best friend than a subordinate.

"You ready, B.A.?"

The black man scowled at his commanding officer. "Been ready. Need to bang some heads, Hannibal!"

The older man smiled back. B.A. was nothing if not predictable. They almost jumped when the phone finally rang. Both men exited the car quickly and picked up the receiver. The oily voice of Reverend Martin James could clearly be heard by B.A., who was hanging close over Hannibal's shoulder. It carried quite well to the top button on the older man's shirt, as well.

"Good morning, Colonel. I'm glad to see that you are punctual. For your Lieutenant's sake, that is. Are you prepared to deliver yourself unto me, Colonel?" The smugness was almost tangible over the phone lines. Hannibal clenched his teeth around a fresh cigar.

"I'm ready. Get to the punch line."

"As you wish, Colonel. I trust you have the rest of your team with you?"

This was the first hurdle that Hannibal knew he must jump.

"Just me and B.A. Couldn't get Murdock out of the VA He got busted up pretty bad when he jumped out of your van and went to the hospital to get some medical attention. His name's on file. The hospital called the VA and they snatched him up again. Good and tight. Even I can't get to him. They've got him in the medical wing under heavy security. You can check it out if you like." The white haired man held his breath. The jazz thrummed in his body. James' voice came back angry and distrustful.

"I'll do just that. Before your next stop. There's a phone in the parking lot of the Van Neys-Sherman Oaks War Memorial. Be there in one hour or your Lieutenant is dead. And if I find out you've lied to me about your Captain, your Lieutenant is dead."

Hannibal feared that James would hang up.

"Wait!" He heard the steady breathing on the other end of the phone. "How do I know Face is still alive?" Now. A chance to speak with Face. Perhaps a code word or two. He waited, breath stilled within his chest. What he got was not what he had anticipated. An anguished cry a small distance away from the other receiver was Hannibal's answer. A cry he recognized too well. His teeth ground through the new cigar, leaving tiny tobacco flakes on his tongue. Martin James' voice came back, triumphant and cocksure.

"One hour, Colonel." The phone went dead.

~~aa~~

James smiled in satisfaction as he disconnected the car phone. The abandoned property had no phone service. The car phone was their only means of communication. Just as well, really. He had simply driven his car up close to the tree and relaxed in the shade inside as he watched his prisoner watch him. Brother Dave was wiping his bloody hand on a towel. The wound in Peck's leg was bleeding again where Brother Dave had knuckled into it. The bandage was soaked. Peck had delivered an inspired performance and was now glaring at the Reverend with hatred. James didn't mind at all. He checked his watch, lifted a travel mug of coffee to his lips and settled down to wait for the next check in.

~~aa~~

Hannibal and B.A. hopped back into the Porsche and the black man tore away from the curb. The Colonel spit tobacco bits from his mouth as he reached for the ringing phone. Murdock's voice came through the line, tense and angry.

"That was your plan to cover for me? To tell them to call the VA? Are you fucking nuts, Hannibal?! I'M NOT THERE!"

The older man ignored the insubordinate outburst. He knew the underlying reasons behind his Captain's anger weren't really directed at him. Instead, he answered calmly.

"It's not something I just pulled out of my ass, Murdock. Haven't you ever been curious to know how the VA handles your frequent disappearances?" The Colonel spit more tobacco flakes from his tongue and spoke into the phone once again. "I've called the VA a few times to see what they say. They're a government run facility, Captain. They can't look incompetent. Without fail, every time I've called, I've gotten the same answer. You're unavailable, you can't be disturbed or something very similar. They cover their asses. Not once have they ever admitted that you aren't there and that they don't know where the hell you are." He grinned hugely, seeing B.A. nod appreciatively as he took a quick corner. Rush hour traffic was going to make things tight.

On the other end of the mobile phone there was a long, silent pause before Murdock's voice came again, low and anguished.

"They're hurtin' Facey, Colonel."

Hannibal's grin disappeared. His speech turned older and soft.

"I know, Murdock, but he's still alive. Focus on that, OK? Now let me talk to Amy."

There was another pause, then Amy's voice answered, matter of fact, yet with just a hint of a tremble beneath the surface.

"Yea, Hannibal."

"I guess I don't need to ask how the button transmitter is working since you both obviously heard our conversation. That's good. That's exactly what I want. How's the tracker?"

The reporter was confident and strong when she answered.

"It's working good, Hannibal. Right now we're about a half mile behind you. Of course, we know where you're headed, so that helps. This thing's only got a mile radius range on it, so if traffic snarls us up too bad we could have a serious problem."

The Colonel considered a moment before responding.

"We'll keep in phone contact as long as we can to help you with directions. If, at some point, we get separated from the car, though, you'd better tighten the gap up to a quarter mile in town. Too much traffic and too many stop lights to screw things up. If we get out into the country you can drop it back to half a mile. Just make sure you two don't get made. Face will be dead for sure if that happens." Amy acknowledge him and they cut the connection.

The Porsche reached the War Memorial with three minutes to spare. When the phone rang, Hannibal was ready.

"Yea."

"Very good, Colonel." Martin James came through the line, strident and self-confident. It grated on Hannibal's nerves.

"We're here, James. Now you better tell me my Lieutenant is OK or I will personally find you and take you apart one inch at a time. Slowly."

James was not at all daunted by the menace of Smith's tone. He had the upper hand and he knew it.

"He is as healthy as the last time we spoke, Colonel. You are lucky that your story was confirmed by the VA. His time is running out, however. He waits on you. 'My times are in thy hand: deliver me from the hand of mine enemies, and from them that persecute me.' " He laughed.

Hannibal heaved an inward sigh of relief. Face was obviously injured, but alive.

"Where to next, James?"

The Reverend gave Hannibal a new address and severed the connection. For the next four hours, B.A. drove frantically from one address to another, Hannibal picking up the phone only long enough to get a new address before jumping back into the car and racing off for another destination. They knew that there were watchers at some of the locations, checking to see whether or not B.A. and Hannibal were alone or being followed. The Colonel kept Murdock and Amy at a safe distance by phone, which he never touched until he knew that he and B.A. were away from prying eyes. Hannibal began to see a pattern to the locations. They were slowly zigzagging back and forth across Interstate 5, moving ever northward toward Bakersfield. When they were finally directed to pull into an old, abandoned barn near exit 194 North of Peace Station, Hannibal knew what was going to happen. After updating Murdock and Amy in the trailing van, he turned to his Sergeant.

"B.A., you know what you have to do now?"

The black man scowled thunderously.

"Yea. But I don't like it, Hannibal. This stinks. It leaves a bad taste in my mouth. I don't want to do it. You know I would never do this for real."

The Colonel sighed. B.A.s pride was a tangible thing. To tell him to go against it was asking a lot of his friend.

"I know, B.A. But, at this point, it's the only thing I can think of to try to get you on the outside. I don't know where we are going to end up, or how many men James has, or what kind of fortifications he's got. I'd feel much better about our chances if you were with Murdock and Amy. Murdock's banged up pretty good and Amy's too green. If they're all we've got to count on, and with Face down, I'm not sure of the outcome. We could be just fine, or we could be looking at disaster. I'm flying blind, here."

B.A. mumbled an incoherent reply and subsided into a brooding, disapproving silence. Hannibal knew that his Sergeant would do his duty when the time came, but he would do it under duress. There was no help for it, however. If there was any way possible, Hannibal would not willingly turn over one of his men into enemy hands.

The Colonel's watch read exactly two-thirty when B.A. pulled into the old barn. Dilapidated and long since peeled of paint, it stood just off the road in a grove of trees next to a power junction. The doors stood wide open for the expected guests. As they pulled in, the Colonel could see an old, white van, corroded and rusty along the fender wells and bumper. A small, brown table sat next to the van with a telephone speaker box sitting upon it, power cord running to a utility extension cord that ran out of the building and, Hannibal guessed, to the power junction box. A phone cord ran from the speaker box into the mobile unit in the van. Only two men, of whom Hannibal did not recognize, stood behind the table. B.A. lowered his brows at them, intimidation ever his trump card. They shifted nervously but otherwise did not move. The large, black man retrieved an Uzi from behind the front seat of the car before the two members of the A-Team climbed out of the Porsche and approached the table. One of the Brother's spoke up, if a bit nervously.

"Reverend James, our guests are here."

"Very good, Brother Benny." The strong, vibrant voice of Martin James issued from the speaker on the table. "Colonel, Sergeant Baracus, I'm pleased to see you have found your way here. I'm sure Lieutenant Peck would appreciate your efforts, too, but he is currently napping. If you would care to pay your respects to him in person, then I have provided transportation for you. You will allow my men to bind your hands behind you and get into the van."

B.A. slid a glance Hannibal's way and inwardly sighed before taking a step back and bringing his Uzi into play.

"No. I ain't goin'." He announced in a disgusted tone. "I'm always bein' dragged into your stupid plans, Hannibal, and I'm done with it. I'm tired o' savin' Face's lily, white ass every time he gets in trouble and putting up with Murdock's craziness. I'm tired o' bein' your gopher and grunt. And I'm tired o' being tricked an' drugged an' knocked on th' head to git me on to planes! It was your idea to take on James in th' first place an you can git yourself out o' it. I'm through." The big man's face twisted as if he had eaten a sour lemon but he turned on his heel and headed toward the Porsche. Martin James next words stopped him dead in his tracks.

"Very well, Sergeant. Brother Stephen, please kill Lieutenant Peck now."

B.A. spun on his heel, terror leeching from his eyes.

"NO! No. I'll come. Jist don't hurt Face anymore." He gave a withering glare to his commanding officer and threw down the Uzi. Reverend James sounded pleased.

"As I thought. A nice effort, Colonel. I could have almost believed that your man was abandoning you, that there was dissension in your ranks, but I have dreamed of him, of all of you. They are in your thrall, you see. The head demon and his minions. 'And when he had called unto him his twelve disciples, he gave unto them power against unclean spirits, to cast them out'. I have seen through your lie, Sergeant. You will get in the van."

B.A. quietly moved forward and allowed himself to be bound. Hannibal reluctantly followed. When they were seated within, the black man leaned toward his commanding officer and spoke in a quiet, angry tone.

"I told you I hated that plan."

Hannibal shrugged apologetically. It had been worth a try. Even if B.A. did not see it that way.

~~aa~~

A mile away a black van sat behind a Mom and Pop cafe. Murdock turned to Amy.

"Looks like it's just you n' me, Darlin'." He murmured worriedly. She nodded back silently, unease surfaced unconsciously in her eyes. Murdock knew she would not voice her fears, just as he could not tell her that he would have done anything to spare her the danger she was about to be placed in.

~~aa~~

Face stirred uncomfortably. Muscle spasms in his leg had roused him from his stupor. He knew the broken bone was irritating the surrounding muscles. Basic first aid in Special Forces training taught that. Fortunately, he hadn't seen any bone fragments sticking out. That would have been even worse. As it was, by the look of his bloated foot and the pain radiating up the limb, his leg was likely swollen and discolored, blood seeping down inside the leg as well as out. Hematomas were surely forming all the way to his feet from standing, bound, against the tree, gravity pulling the internal blood beneath the surface. The bandages were soaked again, too. Brother Stephen had changed them twice now, as well as giving him plenty of water and trying to get him to eat a peanut butter sandwich, of which he could only tolerate a few bites. When Stephen approached again and began to speak, Face had to force himself to listen, blood loss, mild shock, a rising temperature and exhaustion from being forced to stand making his head fuzzy, his vision wavery. At first the words were incoherent, indistinct. Finally, however, they registered in his buzzing brain. He couldn't decide if he was elated or dejected, energized or scared. So many possibilities and any number of them could end in disaster for not only him, but his "family, because of him.

Stephen had informed him that the team had given themselves over to Martin James and were on their way.

~~~aaaAAAaaa~~~

Amy stared at the screen intently. The tiny blip that signaled her two friends moved steadily to the north approximately three quarters of a mile ahead of them. As she watched, however, it slowed, then turned toward the east, picking up speed once more.

"They're turning again," she informed Murdock, "Heading east."

The pilot grunted. "They've been drivin' around in circles for almost two hours now. They sure do want to shake any possible tails, now don't they? I'll take the next cross road an' try to stay parallel to 'em. That way I won't even be kicking' up any dust behind 'em." He smiled briefly over at the slender woman sitting next to him. She missed it, being totally absorbed in watching the tiny blip on the green screen before her. She murmured, almost to herself.

"Hannibal and B.A. have been awfully quiet. They really haven't spoken much since B.A. complained about the van they were in."

"Nice of him to do that for us, huh?" Murdock replied absently as he turned eastward. "Well, as one who's seen the inside of that van, it's nothin' to write home about. They can't tell us much more until they're out of it."

They lapsed into silence once more as the pilot negotiated one handed around the several pot holes in the gravel road. They trundled on past fields of lettuce, asparagus and broccoli until Amy let out a horrified gasp.

"They're gone!"

Murdock slammed on the brakes and brought the van to a skidding, dusty stop.

"What do you mean 'they're gone'?" He snapped.

"I mean they're gone! The screen went dark!"' The reporter frantically tapped the screen, hoping to see the return of the glowing grid. Murdock shifted out of the drivers seat and knelt beside her, peering anxiously at the now dark screen.

"Oh, darlin', this ain't good. Not good atall." He reached for the box, sliding his hands gingerly around the outside surface of it. His fingers finally encountered a spot slightly warmer than the rest.

"Baby, we got us a short circuit. Probably melted through a wire. This thing is toast."

Amy turned large, frightened eyes on her friend. "Now what, Murdock? These guys have been driving back and forth and round and round. How are we supposed to even know which general direction they're going?"

Murdock scrambled to think, shoving aside the momentary panic he felt. Now was not the time.

"Ok. Ok. We've been doin' a lot of drivin, right? But we haven't really ever left this valley, have we?" Amy shook her head and the pilot warmed to his subject. "That's right. Now, we lost the tracker but we've still got the audio transmitter. At least I think we do. We'll drive to their last known position and start a zigzag pattern until we either catch sight of them or pick up some audio."

Amy nodded, chewing her lip and clearly worried, but there were no other options.

"We'd better get moving then."

Murdock gazed at her for a moment more, patted her hand and reseated himself. He tromped his foot upon the gas peddle, sending sprays of gravel and dust spewing from beneath the spinning tires. Fiercely, determinedly, he shouted.

"Onward, upward, till the goal ye win!"

~~~aaaAAAaaa~~~

The rusty, white van slowed and turned from the gravel road onto the long, hard packed dirt lane. Hannibal noticed the difference immediately and roused from his half-doze. The overly warm interior and the constant motion had lulled both men. They looked up at their guard, sitting opposite with an M-16 laying across his knees. Hannibal raised an eyebrow at the "Brother".

"I'm guessing we've arrived." the silver haired man stated for the benefit of two team members who where currently out of ear shot. B.A. slid a glance his way.

The Colonel guesstimated that they had gone almost half a mile before the vehicle slowed again and veered slightly to the right. From the way the van was jumping about, even at low speed, it was easy to guess that they had left the lane and were proceeding across open ground. They stopped within 50 feet of leaving the lane.

When the vans back doors where flung open all three men had to squint and turn their heads away from the harsh glare of the westering sun. Eventually, their vision adjusted and they looked up once again. Brother Benny moved past the two captives and jumped down from the back, raising the rifle once again to cover the men.

B.A. and Hannibal could just make out the front end of a dark sedan and some overhanging tree branches from their restricted view. They glanced once more at each other before standing and moving toward the door. Martin James came immediately into sight, black haired, black clothed, wearing a pair of dark glasses and a wide, pearly toothed smile. He was a commanding presence, charismatic and electric. He would have riveted the two prisoners attention if not for the slender figure seen a short distance behind him.

"Face!" Hannibal surged forward toward the man bound to the tree, B.A. right on his heels. Before they had taken two steps, a dozen automatic weapons came to bear on them.

"You will stand still!" James commanded, safe behind the circle of his brown robed, grim faced protectors. To B.A., the moment stretched impossibly long, details standing out with crystal clarity. The indecision on Hannibal's face as his body slipped and inch closer towards Face. The tension, even fear, radiating off the twelve sweating men surrounding them. Martin James, standing wide legged, arms akimbo and head thrown high in exultation. The westering sun throwing long, dark shadows starkly contrasted with a rich, warm light. Most of all, B.A. had the indelible memory of Templeton Peck imprinted upon his psyche. Pale, bruised skin anchored against dark, rough bark, face unseen as it hung low, hidden by sweat drenched hair. Blood, new bright and old brown, painting his swollen right leg.

Then the moment ended, clashing into reality once again as weapons lifted an inch higher, eyes widened a millimeter more. Hannibal stilled. B.A. held his breath as Martin James took a step forward and swept his captives with an imperious glare.

"Search them."

Two Brothers stepped out of the pack and patted their captives down with efficient hands. The Colt Detective Special was removed from Hannibal's boot and the COP Derringer from B.A.s wide belt. A hand reached into the inside pocket of the A-Team leader's white safari jacket and removed three cigars. Hannibal watched with resignation as the homing transmitter disappeared into the Brother's deep robe pocket James lifted one brow and contemplated the two prisoners as he was presented with the two weapons.

"A little insurance, Colonel? Trying to avoid my justice? 'Gather me the people together , and I will make then hear my words, that they may learn to fear me all the days that they shall live upon the earth'. I have told you before, Colonel. There is no escape from my justice!" Manic zeal shone from the Reverend's face as he confronted the two men. Hannibal gritted his teeth. He was out of his element before this kind of fanaticism. The silver haired man suppressed his uncertainty and forged onward with his customary brashness.

"I want to see the Lieutenant. It seems you've been playing some games with him." The Colonel took a step forward, followed again by his Sergeant. Martin James held Hannibal's gaze for a second, then glanced at his men and nodded permission. The two captives walked forward toward the bound man, followed by a faithful pack of hounds. As they came closer, Hannibal and B.A. could clearly see several human bite marks on Face's torso, one around a nipple on his chest and another on his right collarbone looked particularly vicious and irritated. Various bruises and scratches littered his skin. The bound wound on his leg was obviously painful, as indicated by the tightness of denim on swollen flesh and the oversized, discolored bare foot that emerged from the bottom of the jeans. Hannibal trembled in his fury. His insides seemed twisted and hot. He wanted to reach out and lift that chin, look into those eyes, but his hands were tied behind him. Instead, as he and B.A. came to a stop before the stuporous man, he made his voice gentle, encouraging.

"Face? Face, it's Hannibal. Face. Look at me."

The blonde head shifted slightly. B.A. spoke softly.

"C'mon, little brotha. Look at us. It's B.A."

They were rewarded with a slow lifting of the conman's head as it rose, inch by inch, revealing an ashen face and bruise-dark circles under eyes that slowly opened, unfocused, confused and glazed. Two spots of unnaturally bright color bloomed on Face's cheeks, hollowed out from exhaustion and fever. He struggled to bring the two figures into focus, recognition finally seeping into his worn features. He looked at his friends hungrily. Hannibal and B.A. smiled back. The older man spoke again, softly, only for Face.

"You OK, kid?"

The conman attempted a smile, succeeded.

"Just peachy." The voice came out wispy and hoarse. B.A. looked down at the still lowered zipper on Face's jeans, caught the hint of golden hair peeking out. His voice shook as he whispered fiercely.

"They . . . they hurt you, Faceman?"

The Lieutenant followed B.A.'s gaze to his low slung jeans, hipbones riding above the waist line. He wearily brought his head back up to meet the gazes of his two friends, smiling a little more this time, although the smile never reached his eyes.

"My virtue's still intact, if that's what you mean, B.A. At least what's left of it, anyway." The blonde man looked away, something dark and sorrowful in his eyes. "He . . . he never finished what he started."

Hannibal started to speak again, but James stepped forward to intervene.

"You've had your reunion, Colonel. Now it's time for retribution." The two captives swung around in unison, not consciously realizing that they were putting their bodies between Face and those of their captors. Hannibal thrust out his chin and glared with murderous fury into the face of his enemies.

"My men were only following the orders of their commanding officer, James. That's me. If you have a beef with the A-Team then that beef is with me and me only. You leave my men out of it. I'll take whatever punishment you want, but I want my men set free." The leader of the A-Team seriously doubted that this tactic would work but, with someone as unstable as the good Reverend, it was hard to tell. James considered the Colonel carefully, tilting his head and examining the silver haired man as if he were a specimen under a microscope. A smile slowly crept across his face like oil spreading across water.

"It is good to care about ones men, Colonel. I care about all of my men. They are all my children. My flock. I can understand how you must feel. Yes. I understand. And that is why I can show benevolence. Mercy. 'And God shall send forth his mercy and his truth.' I will show you my truth, Colonel. I will set one of your men free. Just one. The other dies. With you. Only you must choose the one to go free and the one to die. It will be your choice, Colonel." The fanatic smiled wider. "Choose."

The words had barely left the Reverend's mouth when B.A. turned toward Hannibal. He hadn't hesitated, hadn't even had to think.

"Faceman, Hannibal. It got to be Face. He's hurt bad. Needs a hospital. Choose him."

"No." The conman broke in hoarsely. He was ashamed to admit to himself that he had fleetingly cheered B.A.'s suggestion, if only for a second. But what good would a living, free body be to him if his soul were dead? It would be if he accepted his friends death for his freedom. He struggled to speak again, pushing the ever present dizziness aside.

"No. B.A. needs to go. I'm useless. Leg's busted. Choose B.A." He tried to convey with his tone and eyes what he couldn't say out loud. With B.A. free, they might have a chance of being rescued. B.A. shook his head.

"Ain't goin', little brotha. Gotta be you."

"Enough." Hannibal's soft spoken word stopped the retort on the blonde man's lips. All argument ceased as the fascinated audience about them waited for the drama to unfold. The older man studied the ground for long moments, his thoughts chaotic. Years of military training and study taught of these types of scenarios, but all his wisdom and experience couldn't prepare him for the real thing. When faced with it in reality, all the textbooks and debates flew out the window and one was faced with only their own raw emotions as guidance. He lifted his head to assess his surroundings. The group of Brother's surrounding them, the smiling, victorious Reverend, the lone tree, the ramshackle house and surrounding buildings and acres upon acres of dry, unused scrub. No cover. Half a mile to a gravel road out in the middle of nowhere. No easy escape. Turn and face the facts. Emotions cascaded down on him to crash on the shore of his reasoning. Decide. Decide. Then crystal clarity. He looked straight into the eyes of Hell, of insanity.

"James, I don't trust you. You're a lunatic. I wouldn't trust you to carry out your promise even if I saw you personally release one of my men. How would I know you wouldn't take him out of sight and shoot him?" Martin James' brows began to descend, the self satisfied smirk disappeared and Hannibal suspected that he had hit the mark. He continued, more confident now.

"Besides. It makes no difference. We're a team. We're more than a team. I couldn't choose between these men. Ever. And I wouldn't force one of them to live with my decision for the rest of their lives. If we go down, we all go down together. Like a team." He had chosen, and Hannibal prayed that God would have mercy if he had chosen wrong. From the proud looks on his two friend's faces', however, he didn't think so. They both nodded their approval.

Martin James, however, was not pleased to have been read, and dismissed, so easily.

"Very well, you will all suffer my judgment. But first, I believe I need to mete out a bit of punishment." The Reverend's voice rose and took on a ringing timbre. "We have a sinner amongst us that is in need of chastisement! A whore who tried to tempt a Brother into vile and ungodly fornication and in the end murdered that good man!" An accusing arm swept up, finger pointing unerringly at Face. James signaled several of the robed men to move closer to Hannibal and B.A., to train their rifles at the prisoners heads. He turned back to the two commandos.

"Down on your knees, supplicants! You will witness. You will see. The serpent in our midst must be cleansed! Oh, he will not escape his ultimate fate, but perhaps we can purify his soul a little before his final journey! Our beloved Brother John's spirit cries out for revenge. Brother Stephen, bring forth the whip!"

The two captives were forced to their knees as Stephen trotted dutifully off towards one of the outbuildings. The Colonel turned to his Sergeant and they exchanged a long look. Things were going downhill fast. Hannibal looked up again into the eyes of his Lieutenant, who was listening with unusual calm to the rantings of James. The fanatics words sunk in finally and the silver haired man jerked a little in realization. Face had killed the man who had savaged him. B.A. must have worked it out as well for he suddenly turned to his commanding officer with a wide eyed look of alarm. Under cover of the fanatics shouting, Hannibal spoke, low and intense, into the microphone sewed to this jacket.

"Now, Murdock! Things can't wait till dark. Face won't last that long. You'll have to chance it!" The two men watched in frustration as the conman turned a weary and indifferent gaze upon them. He was too exhausted, too muddled by pain, fever and guilt to care at this point. He simply shook his head and shrugged minutely at the stricken looks on his friends faces.

Brother Stephen returned with a long, black bullwhip and, with a slight hesitation, handed it over to James. The Reverend held it aloft with a sly, sidelong glance at Hannibal.

" 'Pour out thy wrath upon the heathen that have not known thee!' I will purge the demon out of this man that he shall die without stain upon his soul. I will flay the wickedness from him! Release him and turn him toward the tree, then bind him again."

As Brother Benny and Brother Dave moved forward to do the bidding of their leader, B.A. and Hannibal shared a glance once again. No van. No welcoming gunfire. Murdock wasn't coming. Something had gone wrong. There would be no timely rescue, no last minute reprieve. B.A. gritted his teeth and surged to his feet, despite the guns trained at his head.

"NO!!"

The two Brother's working at the ropes binding Face's wrists paused. Martin James quirked a brow at the large, black man.

"You have something you wish to say before we carry out the punishment, demonspawn?" He curled his lips at the angry Sergeant. B.A. stood his ground.

"Let me take his punishment."

"No, Sergeant. It's my place to." Hannibal raised himself to his feet as well. He stared the fanatic down. "I'll do it, James. I'll take the whipping."

The Reverend smirked knowingly at his nemesis.

"No, Colonel. Your punishment is to watch. To bear witness." He watched in satisfaction as Hannibal's jaw clenched and his eyes flashed murderously. The dark haired man turned back to B.A.

"You would take a whipping . . . boy?" he sneered. B.A. lifted his head.

"Yes." he spoke with quiet dignity. Hannibal saw Face's head slowly come up, guilt and pain in his eyes, but wonder, too. The blonde shook his head and silently mouthed "no" as tears welled in his eyes.

"B.A. . . . don't. Not for me." the conman choked out. The larger man shrugged nonchalantly.

"We a team, little brutha."

Martin James stroked his chin in contemplation, then nodded.

"Very well, Sergeant Baracus." He motioned for Benny and Dave to continue with the knots around Face's wrists. When they parted, the conman gave a cry as his body, totally unsupported for the first time in twenty four hours, crumpled to the ground. The two robed men grasped him under the arms, dragging him to Hannibal's side and depositing him in a senseless heap. The Colonel knelt once again to look the blonde over, noting the slight awkward bend in the right leg, then directed his eyes towards B.A. The black man, now being led willingly to the tree, looked over his shoulder at his commanding officer.

"It's all right, Hannibal. Like Chao an' th' camps. He playin' wit' you, is all. Don't mean nuthin'. "

His hands were freed from behind him and quickly retied around the tree. The Sergeant faced the rough bark stoically as Brother Benny took a knife, slit the large man's black tee shirt and ripped it away to expose B.A.s heavily muscled back. James looked Hannibal straight in the eye as he commanded Benny to take the whip.

"50 lashes."

Hannibal felt his teeth grind. 50 lashes from a heavy bullwhip could kill an ordinary man. When the first lash fell, James smiled, with the second, he grinned and with the third, he began to laugh.

~~~aaaAAAaaa~~~

Murdock's earlier fierce determination had given way to an uneasy, tense silence inside the van as it rumbled steadily down yet another gravel road. The pilot absently realized that the scabbing scrapes on his face were stinging where his brow had furrowed deep enough to crack the newly formed covering. His eyes left the road long enough to rest on his slender companion for a second or two before returning to their task. The reporter had swiveled her seat completely around and was hunched over the transmitter, setting sun glinting off her hair, body tense almost to the point of quivering as she placed an ear close to the speaker. Murdock could almost sense her mind willing a sound, any sound, to whisper forth from the speaker, announcing that they had once again come within transmission range of their friends.

As they traveled past yet another well tended farm, the lanky Texan gazed out over fields of onions, broccoli, lettuce and other produce being tended by migrant workers. Historic farmhouses and ranch-style homes flashed by. He wondered idly if these quiet, rural people knew that they had a madman running around in their midst. That idle thought coalesced, bright and hot.

"Hey!"

Amy, startled badly enough to slam her funny bone into the side of the van, glared at the driver. He ignored her, brown eyes flashing as he became animated.

"This whole place is really rural, right? Wouldn't you think everyone would pretty much know everyone? I know that sure was how it worked when I was growin' up in Texas!" The reporter considered that statement for a moment, checked the dials on the transmitter which sat in Face's usual chair, and swiveled her seat back into its original position.

"So, you're thinking that we need to start asking some of the locals if they've seen strangers in the neighborhood." She rubbed her smarting elbow absently.

"You got it, Chiquita!" Murdock exclaimed brightly. Amy couldn't help but be drawn in by his enthusiastic demeanor but she was also a trained reporter who tried to see all sides.

"And what do we tell these people we plan to question? Oh, excuse us, but have you seen a band of renegade lunatics lately?"

The pilot slid a sideways glance at her, along with his sideways grin.

"Nah. Time to get married again, Oh Love Of My Life. Hang on."

Murdock pulled the van up to the next house they ran across. Two small, redheaded girls played in the yard of the stylish ranch home. At the sound of someone in her driveway, the mother of the two children, equally redheaded, stepped out to see who was visiting. The pilot took in her neat, clean appearance and approached hopefully, Amy exiting the far side of the van to join him. The lanky Texan placed an arm around his "wife" as they took the final steps together to meet the woman of the house. Murdock smiled sincerely.

"Hi there. My name's H.M. Murdock and this here's my wife, Amy. We were hoping you could help us out a little."

The young mother quirked a suspicious eyebrow at the pair as her daughters hid shyly behind her legs. She eyed Murdock's injuries in trepidation. The pilot continued warmly.

"See, my brother, Scooter, got himself mixed up with a religious group about a year ago and now we need to track him down."

Amy nodded mournfully.

"H.M. and his mother were in an accident recently and I'm afraid Mrs. Murdock isn't doing so well. I think my brother-in-law needs to see his mother before . . . well, you know." She looked up at her "husband" sympathetically. The redheaded woman's expression eased.

"Oh dear. How awful for you. But what's this got to do with me?"

Murdock hugged Amy to him and smiled bravely.

"His group has moved around some in the last few months and we're not sure where he is, but someone told us that the group may have moved into this valley not too long ago. We were hoping that you may have seen some new people, probably dressed in brown robes or driving an old, beat up, white van?

"Oh, no, I'm so sorry. I don't think I've seen anyone like that around. Who did you say this religious group was?"

The pilot blinked his eyes as Amy looked up at him curiously.

"Er . . . the Order of . . . the Boa." Murdock favored the young mother with a dazzling smile. "They think the South American Boa Constrictor is a divine being. Once a year they pretend they're giant Anaconda's, zip up in sleepin' bags for a week, then shed their 'skin' and change their names! Yep. Darndest thing. Then they feast on fried pork rinds for two days and dance naked around a big snake statue while rubbing their . . ." He cut off abruptly as Amy gouged him in the ribs with her good elbow. The young mother's eyes had grown huge, her mouth hanging open. The pilot smiled at her as he beat a hasty retreat.

"Well, thanks for your help, ma'am. Sorry ta bother you. We'll just keep askin' around."

The "married" couple returned to the van and started off again. Several miles and four farmhouses later, as the sun was putting forth it's last molten rays on the undersides of gathering clouds, they struck pay dirt. An elderly farmer sat on his front porch contemplating the pair.

"Yep. I remember a van like that. Fender wells were all rusted out. Piece of junk. I was way over in my back forty, checking on the irrigation system for the lettuce. They were heading up county road T. Not much up that road except for the Toyne place and the old Johnson place. Lenny Johnson died last fall. Had cancer of the liver, you know? Drank too much. He's got good farmland just sittin' and goin' to waste while his snooty kids squabble over it in court. House n' outbuildings aren't worth a dime but that land is worth plenty around here. They'll probably sell it to one of those big outfits and that'll be another family farm gone. What's the world comin' to, huh?" He scratched his head. " Those religious folks might be campin' out at his place. Wouldn't surprise me. It's 'bout ten miles from here. Just go down this road another mile till you hit county road S, then go about 2 miles and you'll hit T. Turn left and keep on goin' for about seven more miles. The house sits way back off the road. Hard to see, especially in the dark, but it's got one of the few, large oak trees left in this whole valley."

Murdock thanked the old timer and the couple returned quickly to the van. The pilot peered at Amy in the dying light and saw that she was looking back at him, a combination of emotions playing across her pixie face.

"Sure hope this is it, darlin'." he murmured somberly. "Cause I get the feelin' we're runnin' out of time.

~~~aaaAAAaaa~~~

The final crack of leather against flesh died on the soft breeze as the last sliver of sun slipped below the horizon. Hannibal had forced himself to watch each stroke as it had fallen, never taking his eyes from his Seargent, his friend. The older man was glad that Face lay senseless in the tall grass beside him, unable to witness the brutal punishment. B.A. had borne it all with grim silence, first with head thrown up in pride, then gradually bowing in teeth clenching pain. The large man had eventually sagged against the tree, bound arms now clutching the rough bark for support, panting breath hissing through grinding teeth. Yet he had never once cried out, nor even moaned.

The Colonel knew that his friend was fortunate. Such and odd way to look at circumstances when B.A.'s back was a shredded, bloody, tattered mess that looked more like hamburger than a human back, but there it was. He was fortunate in the fact that his tormentor, Brother Dave, had little or no knowledge of whips. Hannibal had seen masters handle the lethal length of a bull whip with such finesse and skill that they could literally, with flick of wrist and jerk of arm, flay the skin off a man in neat strips, lay open muscle down to the bone and slice away nerves, spinal cords, eyes, ears and other body parts like a surgeon. Brother Dave had simply flogged away, back and forth, sometimes hitting his target, sometimes striking the back of B.A.'s legs, the grass, even himself from time to time. The marks on B.A.s back were inconsistant, ranging from mere welts to deep slices that bled fiercely, but none of those along the black man's spine seemed to be dangerously deep. He was a mess, to be sure, but it could have been far, far worse. For that small gift, Hannibal was thankful.

At a word from James, two robed men released the Seargent from his bonds. B.A. straightened slowly, carefully, until he stood straight once again. He turned and moved with a strange, stiff shuffle toward Hannibal. The Colonel could see, in the dark, painfilled eyes of his friend, that B.A. was staying upright by sheer force of his powerful will. He stumbled once, catching himself, paused and moved forward again with a slow deliberateness that made the older man's heart ache. He could see the clenched fists, the set teeth, the quivering muscles as his friend resolutetly placed one hesitant foot in front of the other.

Martin James approached as B.A. came to a stop before his Colonel. The Reverend nudged Face with his toe, illiciting a moan from the prone man. The blonde man stirred and opened his eyes. The fanatic surveyed his prisoners for a moment more before raising his arms for attention.

"Brothers! Our enemies are brought low before us! Tomorrow morning, as the sun brings us a new day, these sinners will be delivered unto my justice. 'Then shall thou bring forth that man or that woman, which has committed that wicked thing, unto thy gates, and shalt stone then with stones, till they die! The hands of the witnesses shall be first upon them to put them to death, and afterward the hands of all the people. So thou shalt put the evil away from among you!' With the words of the book I condemn you to your deaths." The dark haired man grinned widely at Hannibal before swinging about to look upon his flock. "I want a watch set tonight. Brother Benny, see to it, please. Brother Dave, find those that are not on watch or preparing the evening meal and take them to search for stones. Fist sized or larger. Pile them on the cement slab next to the machine shed. Brother Stephen, take this unholy offal to the basement, where they may reflect upon their sins for the few hours they have remaining to them." He turned once more to smile victoriously into the face of Hannibal Smith.

Brother Stephen moved forward with another robed man, intent on picking up Face. The Colonel stepped forward, blocking their way.

"I'll help him if you untie my hands. I won't run." He looked into Stephen's eyes before forcing another word out. "Please."

Stephen looked to James, who gave a negligent shrug, too busy consulting with Benny about the night watch to really be concerned. The robed man quickly untied the bonds around Hannibal's wrists. B.A. held himself stiffly as he watched, helpless in his pain to help. It galled. The older man rubbed his wrists breifly before kneeling beside the blonde man. Face's eyes were open, his weary face turned toward his leader. Hannibal spoke low to the younger man.

"This won't be comfortable, son."

Face smiled slightly.

"I know, it's all right. Hang on a sec, first." He shifted slightly, bringing his hands down to his jeans. His wrists were bloody and raw, his hands and fingers swollen painfully from too many hours with ropes cutting off circulation. The conman tried to fumble with his lowered zipper but he couldn't grasp the tiny metal peice. Hannibal placed a gentle hand on his Luitenant's clumsy one. Without a word spoken, the older man carefully raised the zipper, noting the embarrassed look in the younger man's eyes. Face nodded, then, and tried to sit up in order to make it easier for Hannibal to raise him up. He bit his lips and hissed as his leg shifted.

"I don't think I'm going to be able to walk, Hannibal."

The Colonel just smiled and slid his arms under Face's back and knees.

"I'm not too old that I can't carry your skinny ass, Lueitenant." He braced himself and lifted. The blonde man cried out as the ends of broken bones grated together and fresh blood appeared on his leg. Blonde eyelashes fluttered and Face's head fell back once again. Hannibal grunted as he shifted his burden into a secure position within his arms. He looked into the worried eyes of the large man standing next to him.

"I'm lying, B.A. I am getting too old for this." He spoke softly, gazing first at the bloody friend who stood painfully erect before him, then down to the unconcious man in his arms. "Too damn old."

~~~aaaAAAaaa~~~

Murdock and Amy were two miles from the Johnson farm, the outside range limit on the audio transmitter, when they heard the first stuttered words come from the speaker.

". . . committed. . . thy gates. . . stone then . . . they die!"

The two remaining members of the A-Team looked at each other with alarm. The compelling voice of Martin James strengthened as they drew closer.

"The hands of the witnesses shall be first upon them to put them to death, and afterward the hands of all the people. So thou shalt put the evil away from among you!' With the words of the book I condemn you to your deaths."

"NO!"

So much pain, so much loss in that one word. Murdock, eyes wide and frantic, tromped down on the gas, sending the van slewing across the gravel as it jumped forward at a dangerous speed. Amy steeled herself to hear gunshots signalling the end of her friends. Instead, the speaker spit forth more tinny words.

"I want a watch set tonight. Brother Benny, see to it, please. Brother Dave, find those that are not on watch or preparing the evening meal and take them to search for stones. Fist sized or larger. Pile them on the cement slab next to the machine shed. Brother Stephen, take this unholy offal to the basement, where they may reflect upon their sins for the few hours they have remaining to them."

The reporter shouted at the crazed pilot.

"Murdock! Murdock! It's not happening now. We've got time! Slow down!" The pilot, his breath coming in great, shuddering gasps, let up on the accelerator and slowed the van to a halt. He lay his forehead on the steering wheel, hands shaking uncontrollably as he grasped the wheel in a white knuckled grip, eyes clenched tightly shut.

"Oh God, oh God, oh God. I thought we were too late."

The reporter, shaking as well, laid a soothing hand on the pilots shoulder. They sat in silence, listening to the words that followed as they waited for their calm to return. They heard Hannibal speak, then Face, weak and in pain. They listened as the Colonel lifted the conman, heard Face cry out and heard Hannibal's despairing words to B.A.

"They're all there, Amy. Face ain't doin' to good, from the sounds of it, but they're all alive. Wonder why Hannibal's carryin' the Faceman and not B.A.?" Murdock shook his head, then straightened. "Can't sit here wonderin'. We got things to do." His voice became determined, his face resolute.

The Texan edged the van slowly foreward until they crested a small rise. Twilight had descended in the short time it had taken them to drive from the old farmers house but in the last light of the gloaming, before the stars appeared, the pair could make out the silouette of a large oak tree approximately three quarters of a mile away. Murdock killed the engine and stepped out of the van, surveying the surrounding countryside in the dim light. Amy joined her friend, quietly slipping up and fitting herself against his side, not for warmth or caresses, but for reasurrance. The pilot slid his arm around her shoulders and held her tight to him, eyes still roaming. He pointed out a dark line that crossed under the road a quarter mile further up.

"See that, that's an irrigation ditch. Look around, darlin'. We got no cover at all. None. Not even lettuce to crawl through. But that ditch crosses under the road and circles out and around the back side of the farmhouse by about a quarter mile. If we can crawl through that ditch and come up to the farm from the back side, we may have a chance." He looked down into her pixie face, his face grim. "B.A. didn't carry Face. He didn't even offer. That's wrong, Amy. If he were OK then he would have insisted on bein' the one to carry Face. That's just the way he is. I've got to assume that the big guy is injured in some way. That's goin' to complicate things.

~~aa~~

Hannibal looked around him as he settled Face onto the cold floor of the coal room. An empty room. Nothing at all to work with. B.A. shuffled stiffly after him. The Colonel rose and took the Sergeant by the arm.

"Sit down, B.A., before you fall down." He assisted the larger man in slowly lowering himself to his knees. B.A. sat on his heels and knelt forward, hands planted on the ground, head bowed. He was panting heavily again and shaking his head.

"Jus' . . . jus' gimme a minute . . . ta clear my head." he murmured. His back was on fire. He could feel rivulets of blood trickling down to soak into the already saturated band of his commando pants. The black man couldn't remember where his wide belt had gone. It didn't matter now anyway. It hurt to move in the slightest, hurt to breath, even. He couldn't lay down, couldn't lean against the wall, couldn't stand because of the dizziness. B.A. squeezed his eyes shut and tried to get it together.

Hannibal turned from the kneeling man to see Brother Stephen in the doorway. The robed man was staring at the two injured men with something like guilt tingeing his features. The Colonel looked him straight in the eye.

"I need to splint Face's leg. Is there anything you can give me that I can use?"

Brother Stephen snapped out of his reverie, turning his attention to the silver haired man.

"I'm not giving you sticks or boards, Colonel. I've already seen what one of you can do without anything at all." He nodded in the direction of the conman, who was beginning to stir once again. Hannibal nodded thoughtfully.

"OK. How about some magazines. And some blankets. The magazines can be used for splints and I'll use the blankets for binding strips. Can you do that much at least?" He looked hopefully into the other man's eyes. Brother Stephen hesitated, then nodded carefully.

"Yea. I guess I can do that. Benny's got a stack of Playboy's that he keeps hidden from the Reverend. I'll get some of those and a couple of blankets. That's all I can do, though." He turned and left.

Hannibal felt eyes on him and swung around to see that Face was once again conscious. The blonde man whispered in a shaky voice.

"He's . . . he's in it for the money, Hannibal. Our bounty. James' millions. He's been . . . kind to me, despite that." The conman tilted his head slightly to take in B.A.'s bowed and bloody form. His features screwed into a mask of guilt. "Ah, B.A. Why? God damn it. I never wanted . . . wanted you to get hurt because of me. You shouldn't have done it. Ah, damn." His eyes closed in misery for both himself and his friend.

"My choice, little brotha." B.A. forced out through clenched teeth. "Don't be doin' that guilt thing you do. I ain't in the mood for it. Jus' . . . jus shut up an' let Hannibal tend to ya." They all fell silent as they waited for Brother Stephen to return.

~~aa~~

Murdock moved away from Amy and went around to the back of the van. Opening the doors, he began to shove the weapons locker to one side. The reporter moved back to the other side and the transmitter. She turned the volume up enough so they could hear the events taking place as they prepared. Murdock pulled up the rug on the floor of the van, revealing a plated door underneath. A recessed ring in the plate allowed the door to be raised. Two long, sleek rifles lay within on a cushioned shallow bed under the floorboards. The pilot grinned at Amy.

"Face's rifles. They're too long for the regular ordinance locker." He looked down. The Marrett M82A1 was huge, nearly five feet long and nearly twenty pounds. Hannibal had gotten it for the conman two years ago for Christmas. Capable of firing .50 BMG caliber anti-tank bullets it was the top of the line sniper rifle. The bipod that it fitted on lay next to it. Murdock considered it for a moment then turned to the other. The Mauser SP66 was Face's favorite. Lighter than the other, it was designed with one thing in mind. No sights other than scopes. Next to it lay the nightvision scope attachment. The pilot grabbed both the Mauser and the nightscope, attaching it quickly and precisely. The reporter eyed her friend dubiously.

"Are you planning to use that, Murdock?"

He smiled and shook his head.

"Not my specialty, darlin', although we've all practiced on it. I need ta see what's goin' on down there. The scope on this thing can sight in the wings on a fly at one mile. Easily."

The pair paused as they listened to Hannibal ask for magazines to splint Face's broken leg. Murdock's face grew grim again. When Face confirmed that B.A. was injured, the pilot's face grew thunderous.

"I'm tempted to use this for it's intended purpose, darlin. I surely am." He opened his mouth again as if to say more, then paused and snapped it shut again, shaking his head in anger. Instead, he climbed to the top of the van and stretched out along it's length, rifle trained on the farm below, eye pressed to the nightvision scope, assessing, calculating, counting.

~~aa~~

Brother Stephen returned with four Playboys, three old but warm blankets and two bottles of water. Hannibal took the items from him.

"I'd thank you, but Face tells me you'll get all the thanks you need after we're dead tomorrow." He looked Stephen straight in the eye. "I hope it's worth it, kid. I hope you can live with it." The younger man took a step back then turned and walked out, locking the door behind him, but not before the older man had seen the look of doubt on his face.

The Colonel turned back to his men. They all had a drink before getting down to business. Hannibal knelt beside his Lieutenant.

"You know what I have to do."

The blonde man looked into concerned electric blue eyes.

"Yea. You . . . you'd better just get it over with." Fear tinged his voice. He couldn't help it. This was going to be bad. The break had been over 15 hours ago. The muscles were spasmed, the flesh irritated and swollen, painful to the touch. To set it now without anesthetic was going to be torture, but to wait longer than he already had was to risk losing the use of his leg, if that hadn't already happened. "Do it now, before I lose my nerve, Hannibal."

The Colonel ripped several strips of cloth from one of the blankets, sliding them gently up under the injured leg until they were positioned under the break. He wanted to remove the bandaging and inspect the bullet wound, but there wasn't anything he could have done for it anyway. Infection had surely set in by now judging by the heat radiating off of Face's body. Best to just leave it be at this point.

B.A. scooted painfully forward and knelt at the conman's head. He hated this. Hated taking those swollen, bloody wrists and pushing them into the floor. Hated imprisoning his friends arms so that he couldn't fight back. Hated what he knew was coming.

Hannibal looked up to see if B.A. was ready and, when he got a nod of acknowledgment, positioned himself below Face's right foot. He took a firm hold around the swollen ankle, feeling the edema and swollen bruising that had forced it's way the entire length of the leg. Steeling himself he began to count softly.

"One . . . two . . . three!" With one swift move, Smith yanked down on Face's leg. The conman let out a terrible, hoarse scream, kicking his good leg against the cement floor and pulling futilely in B.A.'s grasp. He kept on screaming as the bone aligned and snapped into place. His head thrashed from side to side as Hannibal moved swiftly to the Lieutenant's side, rolled the four magazines into tight tubes and lay them one at a time around the leg. He secured them quickly and tightly with the strips of cloth and tried to ignore Face's pleading.

"Oh God, don't. Stop Hannibal, stop. Just leave it. Please, Hannibal, please." His fingers scrabbled at the skin on B.A.'s arms, pain and fever making him more wild animal than sane man. B.A. screwed his eyes shut, trying to force the tears to stay behind the lids where they belonged, but one slipped out anyway.

"Hurry it up, Hannibal!"

The Colonel knotted the last strip of cloth and sat back, trembling. Noticing the sudden silence, the stillness, he turned his head to look at Face. The pale face was still, the eyes closed again. The Lieutenant had passed out.

~~~aaaAAAaaa~~~

Murdock slid from the roof of the van, thumping softly on the road. There had been no sounds from Hannibal and the others since shortly after the Colonel had sent Brother Stephen off for blankets and magazines. The pilot had had a good look around and now knew what he wanted to do. He took Amy's elbow and led her to the back of the vehicle. He pointed to their black jeans and boots.

"Time to get into the rest of our blacks, Chiquita. Then I'll tell you the plan."

Murdock stowed the rifle back in it's bed, unscrewing the night scope and laying it aside. Then, climbing into the van, they shut the door behind them and rummaged around in the army duffel, pulling two lightweight, black turtleneck sweaters from it. Murdock handed the smaller one to Amy.

Before the pilot could turn his back to her, the slender woman matter of factly grabbed the edges of her tan tee shirt and pulled it up over her head, revealing a lacy, low cut, underwire bra. Murdock's eyes widened and his heart skipped a beat at the sight of her perfectly proportioned torso. The reporter, reaching for her turtleneck, noticed her friends stare.

"What?" She shook her head in exasperation. "Murdock, you've seen women in bikinis before. It's the same thing. Get over it."

"I know." He squeaked, then tried again, deepening his voice back to it's normal tone. "I know. You just took me by surprise, that's all.

She rolled her eyes at him. The Texan quickly doffed his own tee shirt and donned the larger turtleneck, mentally kicking himself during the entire process for slipping so badly. Only in his most secret dreams did he imagine what he had just seen before him. He shook his head. Now was definitely not the time to get sidetracked. He grabbed a roll of black greasepaint, handing a second to Amy, and proceeded to daub stripes and blotches of black on his face, skirting the darkened scabs which provided their own camouflage. The reporter followed suit.

As they were finishing their camouflage, the audio receiver crackled to life once more. Brother Stephen had returned with the needed items. Murdock paused when Hannibal's voice stated softly, apologetically.

"You know what I have to do."

The pilot tried to swallow in a mouth that had suddenly gone dry as Face answered. Amy looked at the pilot curiously.

"What's happening, Murdock?" The sound of ripping blankets came through the speakers as the pilot turned worried brown eyes on the woman.

"Hannibal's gotta set Face's leg, Amy. This isn't going to be pleasant to listen to. Brace yourself." The reporter nodded, face turned grim. When they heard the Colonel begin the countdown, they both tensed.

Neither one of them was prepared, however, for the anguished primal scream that ripped through the interior of the van. Amy gasped, hand reaching up to cover her mouth as her eyes flew wide. She turned to Murdock, only to notice that his face had drained of all color, white pallor standing out in stark relief to the black greasepaint so recently applied. His eyes were far away, gone into a distant past that he had hoped never to revisit. As scream after scream tore into the pilot he shuddered as if from a physical blow. When his best friend pleaded with their commanding officer to stop, Murdock bowed his head and covered his ears, breath ragged and uneven. Amy moved toward her tall friend, reaching up and drawing his head onto her shoulder. He moaned softly into the darkness of her neck.

"I never . . . never thought I'd have to . . . hear that again. Never again." He whispered brokenly. She shushed him, smoothing his baby fine hair.

"It's over. They're done. It's over. Now we need to get them out. Get Face and B.A. to a doctor. Murdock . . . Murdock, look at me." She drew back, tilting his head up to see his eyes. They were dark, so dark. A maelstrom of colliding memories, emotions. An ocean of the soul and he was swimming with the sharks. She gripped his chin firmly, almost painfully.

"Murdock, what do we do now? What's the plan?" He winced away from her, looked down for a moment, breathing heavy. She waited. When his breathing had slowed he shook himself, turning to face her again. The reporter almost gasped at the change in him. No longer vulnerable and lost, the Murdock that looked at her now was hard and cold. Rage burned deep in those dark eyes. Rage and grim determination.

"We go in and get them the Hell out of there."

The pilot shifted positions with her and pulled the ordinance locker open. With quick, sure movements he sorted through the weapons that B.A. had packed. He produced two army issue weapons belts from the bottom of the locker, handing one to Amy and keeping one for himself.

"I'm going to give you the two tear gas canisters. You're not experienced enough to handle the grenades. You've seen us use tear gas before. Just make sure when you pull the pin and toss it, that you're either upwind or out of the building your throwing it into." He smiled slightly, eyes still cold and distant.

"You get the Uzi. It's lighter weight and easier to handle. You've practiced on it so I don't think I need to go over anything. Here's two extra clips for it." He calmly handed her the submachine gun and ammunition, then pulled two identical heavy pistols with holsters from the locker, handing one to the reporter and keeping one for himself.

"These are Colt M1911's. Attach the holster to your belt and put the extra clips for the pistol and the Uzi in the ammo pouches. Remember to take the safety off. Keep the tear gas canisters on the opposite side of the pistol in the big pouch." Amy nodded and began to pack her weapons belt quietly, fingers trembling slightly.

Murdock inspected the remaining items and quickly discarded Hannibal's favorite M-60. Much too cumbersome for a crawl through a ditch. He reluctantly decided against the claymore mines, as well. He didn't think he would have the time, nor the opportunity, to set and detonate the high powered explosives. He quickly attached the Colt pistol to his belt. Ten out of the 12 grenades where clipped onto the belt as well. Now for the rifles. The pilot, wanting to bring something for Hannibal in the event he could be reached, chose the reliable and favored M-16 to slip over his head. It slung crosswise along his back, secure for travel. He then picked up a Stoner 63A1, a favorite machine gun of the Navy SEALS, for himself because of it's light weight and easy handling. With his broken arm, he felt it was a must. Murdock packed his weapons belt with extra ammo clips for all his armament, then picked the disattached night vision scope up once again and slipped it into a pouch as well. He was fairly satisfied with his choices.

Hefting the Stoner once again in his hand, the pilot checked the safety, noticing in alarm that his handling of the weapon was severely hampered by the cast on his right arm. To keep his radius and ulna from moving, the cast was molded down to the second knuckles of his hand and circled part of his thumb. He could barely touch the very tips of his thumb and middle finger together. Murdock definitely couldn't pull the trigger on a sub machine gun. His brow furrowed.

"Amy, reach behind you into B.A.'s tool box and get his bolt cutters." The reporter glanced at her friend curiously, but did as she was asked. Murdock held out his casted arm.

"I want you to cut away the cast around my hand, just up to the wrist." He pointed the stopping point out with his left hand. The young woman glared at him.

"Murdock, if I do that, your bones will move. They haven't even begun to set!"

The pilot set his face in a determined scowl. "I know that, darlin', but it can't be helped. They'll be supported by the rest of the cast. That's the best I can do. I have to be able to handle a weapon. I'll have it recasted later. Just do it."

Amy studied the grim resolve on his face for a moment, then heaved a sigh and began to cut away bits and pieces of casting material. When she was through with her task, the pair moved back to the front seats and Murdock started the van, running now without lights. He crept the van forward in the darkened night until he found the driveway to a nearby onion field. Pulling in, he once again killed the engine and the two exited. They were very close to the irrigation ditch now. Amy surveyed the dark slash on the land and tried to settle her fluttering stomach. She turned to the pilot.

"How are we going to know what's going on in the farmhouse? How do we know when and where to be?" Murdock, studying the surrounding landscape in the dim starlight, murmured almost absentmindedly.

"We won't hear. We can't take the receiver with us. I think James will try to kill the team at dawn or shortly after. He's going to want to see his handiwork. To gloat. Can't do that in the dark. Let's go."

He led the way over the road and down into the ditch. Starlight glimmered on the few inches of water that ran through it. Amy shivered as she descended into the darkness that ran like a wound across the land. It was only around four and a half feet deep, swallowing Amy up to mid-chest, but once below the surface line of the field, it was dark and forbidding, smelling of wet earth, fertilizer and insecticide runoff. The pair slung their weapons across their backs and knelt in the fetid water. Careful to keep their heads below surveillance level and their weapons from the sluggishly moving water, they bent forward, supporting themselves occasionally by putting out a hand, and began on a long, curving route towards their destination.

~~~aaaAAAaaa~~~

Hannibal pulled the blanket up a little further on Face. The Lieutenant shifted slightly and moaned but did not wake. The older man leaned back against the wall once again. Face lay on one blanket with a second covering him. B.A. was attempting to lay on the third blanket, mostly lying front side down but propped up slightly on his side. He wasn't having much luck getting comfortable.

The two men had subsided into silence after Face had passed out, both caught up in their own thoughts. The blonde man groaned occasionally, eyelashes fluttering and head shifting periodically from right to left and back again. Hannibal thought he heard his name whispered once, but he couldn't be sure. The Colonel placed his palm on the conman's forehead, monitoring the heat radiating from it.

B.A. observed quietly. After repeated attempts to find a semi-suitable position, he finally sighed and sat up, crossing his legs. This position pulled painfully on his back and several wayward slashes across the back of his legs screamed in protest, but at this point no position was comfortable and it was better than kneeling on the hard cement floor. B.A. felt several scabs split and warm blood began to trickle once again. The big man was glad he couldn't see his ravaged flesh. Feeling it was quite bad enough. The pain was almost unbearable.

Hannibal noticed the moment of frozen stillness B.A. adopted as he struggled for control, his breath coming in short, sharp, little puffs from distended nostrils. The older mans brow wrinkled.

"How you doing, B.A.?"

The black man grunted, then nodded.

"I'll live." He gathered himself. "How's Faceman?"

Hannibal shrugged. "I think his fever is rising."

The Sergeant listened for a moment as the conman murmured unintelligibly in his sleep, then looked the silver haired man straight in the eye.

"Where you think Murdock is?"

Hannibal sighed wearily, scrubbing a hand across his face.

"I don't know, B.A. Any number of reasons would have kept him from coming in today. The worst case scenario is that James caught on somehow that Murdock was following and took them out. I don't think so, though. James wouldn't have kept something like that quiet. He would have wanted to gloat about it." The Colonel grimaced at the thought, then stroked his lip, wishing for a cigar.

"He could have gotten caught in traffic and lost us on the transmitter, or maybe the audio button isn't working and he couldn't hear me, although I would have thought they'd have us on some kind of visual. I just don't know. It could have been dozens of things. I'm hoping that the plan for him coming in after dark is still playing but, at this point, I'm not counting on anything. I've got one trick left up my sleeve but it's a pretty feeble one, B.A."

The younger man was about to respond when a hoarse whisper distracted both of them.

"No."

Face's eyebrows clenched together, his head shifted.

"No."

The conman's breathing altered, becoming quicker, head now moving back and forth slowly. One hand crept out from under the blanket, then up to push at the empty air around his hips, warding away something only he could sense. Again that agonized whisper.

"No."

B.A. looked sharply up at Hannibal. The older man closed his eyes for a brief moment, gathering his strength, before scootching closer to Face. He patted the blonde man's flushed cheeks gently, leaning over the agitated man.

"Face." he commanded in a stern, caring tone. "Face. It's time to wake up. C'mon, Lieutenant, up and at 'em." The familiar voice had the desired effect. The conman ceased his struggles and swam his way towards consciousness. After a momentary battle with weighted eyelids, his lashes fluttered open and he gazed up into the brilliant blue eyes of his commander.

"Hannibal." he breathed out, dazed blue eyes drifting about, unfocused. "I . . . I didn't tell them anything. Swear. Where . . . where's Murdock?"

B.A. scowled. "He outta his head, Hannibal."

The Colonel sighed again. "Yea. Looks that way. Wish he wouldn't go back there, though. Damn." The older man picked up an unused strip of torn blanket and soaked it with water from one of the bottles. Face's eyes continued to roam.

"Where's Murdock? Chao's got him again? Where's Murdock? Hannibal? Hannibal, where's Murdock? B.A.?"

The Colonel smoothed the cool, wet rag over the conman's fevered brow, attempting to placate the blonde man.

"Murdock's fine, Face. He's not with Chao. We're not in the camp. You're just sick and injured, that's all. You can go back to sleep now, OK?"

The Lieutenant wasn't to be put off that easily, however. He turned his head to look at B.A.

"B.A.? Ah, B.A. Chao's been at you, too. No, no, no. B.A., you gotta look out for Murdock. Chao hurt me again. I tried not to let him, B.A., but . . . I'm going to Hell for sure, B.A. You gotta look after Murdock for me, OK? Don't let Chao make him dirty like me, OK?"

B.A. ground his teeth, fists clenched tightly. He inwardly railed at the unfairness of life at times. Scooting painfully up to his friend, he took the conman's hands in his large, gentle ones.

"Stop that, Face. You ain't dirty. You done nothin' to be ashamed of. You a good man, Face. My Mama say you a good man, an' she don't never lie."

Hannibal continued his careful ministrations with the wet cloth, letting his Lieutenant focus on B.A.'s soothing strength. The conman's sad, glazed, too-bright eyes looked deeply into the gentle brown ones of his big friend.

"She doesn't know, B.A." he whispered hoarsely. "If she knew everything . . . I've broken all the commandments, B.A. All of them. Over and over. He . . . he said I was a sinner and a . . . a whore, and he's right. I killed again, B.A., did you know that? I swore I'd never kill again, ever, and now I'm a murderer all over again, B.A. Chao's man . . . no . . . not Chao . . . " Face shook his head in weary confusion. "I'm so tired. Hannibal?"

The young man turned his head again, looking for the trusted face that went with the soothing, cool hand on his forehead.

"Hannibal? Where's Murdock? I'm . . . I'm sorry, Hannibal. Where . . . where are we? Did I screw up? I'm sorry, Hannibal. I'm really tired. I'm sorry."

The older man shook his head sadly.

"There's nothing to be sorry for, kid. Nothing at all. You haven't done anything wrong. Murdock's safe and no one's mad at you. Close your eyes. You've been through a lot today. I want you to rest, Lieutenant. That's an order." He continued to stroke the wet cloth over the blonde man's flushed face. B.A. looked up at the older man, worry plain in his eyes, then back down to the fevered blue eyes, now closing slowly. Face whispered softly.

"Yes, sir. Sorry. Sorry. Hail Mary, full of . . . full of Grace. Blessed art . . . thou . . . amongst . . ." The exhausted man drifted off. The two remaining men sat in somber silence, pondering on the complex, changeable man in their care. They were still there twenty minutes later when they heard voices and footsteps descending the basement stair.

Martin James was coming for a visit.

Hannibal stood to receive their visitor, placing himself between the door and his men. The door swung open, revealing the black clad man and two acolytes bearing AK-47's. All three men pushed into the room. Neither the Colonel nor the Reverend spoke, letting their silences tell whatever stories could be interpreted. James let his gaze rest on the sleeping conman for a moment before moving it casually to the large, black man sitting on the floor. B.A. stared steadily back at his captor, unwilling to flinch from the fanatical gleam that blazed in the Reverends dark eyes. James finally allowed his eyes to track up and rest on the steady, fierce, blue ones of his enemy. Martin James frowned inwardly at Smith's seemingly indomitable spirit. Outwardly he let a smile ooze across his features.

"Making peace with yourself, I trust?"

Hannibal refused to acknowledge the question, simply crossing his arms and waiting calmly. This insolence further irritated the fanatic and rage darkened his features. He turned to the brown robed man on his left.

"I do believe the Colonel suffers the sin of pride, don't you, Brother Benny?" The acolyte simply nodded his head dutifully, listening patiently as the Reverend continued.

"Pride is a burden, Colonel. A sin which will weigh heavy as a millstone around your neck in the hereafter. I would not consider myself dutiful if I didn't make an effort to correct the problem. No. I see that I must teach the good Colonel a lesson in humility, Brother Benny. 'The fear of the Lord is to hate evil: pride, arrogance and the evil way of the forward mouth, do I hate.' " James tilted a brow in question. "Don't you agree, Colonel?"

When, yet again, no response was forthcoming, the Reverend's face twisted slightly, a snarl trembling on the edge of his lips. He reached for the black leather holster at his side and removed a well-kept handgun. An older Colt Revolver, Hannibal noted almost idly. The fanatic caressed the revolver gently, smiling again before flipping the cylindrical bullet chamber out and tilting it up, thumb held over one chamber. Five shiny, sleek bullets slid into his waiting palm before the chamber was snikked back.

Hannibal felt his stomach turn over. B.A.'s eyes widened.

The Reverend looked once more at the two men on the floor, then slid his black eyes up to the older man's electric blue gaze, holding it as he spoke to the two acolytes.

"Brother Benny, Brother Dave, if the Colonel makes any threatening moves towards me, you are to shoot him on the spot, then kill both of his men. Is that clear?" Both men nodded obediently as James began to spin the bullet chamber in a clickety click tattoo.

"I know that you must be familiar with the game of Russian Roulette, Colonel. One bullet, a spin of the chambers and the gamble that the full chamber does not come up. Shall we play, your men and I? Or are you prepared to beg for their lives, you arrogant son-of-a-bitch?" James features turned ugly as he spit the last sentence out, a trace of the hatred he felt for the silver haired man marring his efforts to remain aloof.

Hannibal caught the eyes of his Sergeant and a knowing glance, full of old memories, old pain, passed between them. This was not the first time Hannibal had been forced to humble himself for the sake of his men. Sometimes he wondered if that experience had helped shape some of his "spit-in-the-eye-of-your-enemy" attitude in later years. Arrogance as a salve for a wounded ego. B.A. murmured, almost too soft to hear.

"Don' mean nuthin'. Like Chao."

Hannibal gave a tiny nod and dropped his arms to his side in a non-threatening position. Turning toward the fanatic, eyes lowered to cover his lack of contrition, the leader of the A-Team spoke softly, apologetically.

"I'm sorry that I've offended you, Reverend. My men were only following my orders. Don't take it out on them." He paused before adding. "Please." He kept his eyes downcast, schooling his face into a semblance of penitence. James considered the man before him for a long moment, taking in the bowed head, yet otherwise erect and proud stance of his enemy. He frowned.

"Not very convincing, Colonel. Not good enough." He turned toward the sleeping conman, noting the alarmed look on the face of the older man with satisfaction. Hannibal took a step forward, halting when he saw the AK-47's coming to bear.

"Wait."

James ignored him, taking careful aim at the head of the blonde man who remained oblivious to the drama unfolding around him. James looked back over his shoulder at Hannibal.

"Beg, Colonel. Beg for your pretty harlot."

Hannibal held out his hand toward the fanatic, brow furrowed now with worry, a tinge of desperation in his voice.

"Please, Reverend. Don't do this. It's me you are angry with. I'll take any punishment you want. Please don't hurt my men."

James paused a long moment.

"Not good enough."

Hannibal's eyes widened. "NO!"

*Click!*

The silver haired man jerked at the empty sound, noting a similar reaction from his Sergeant. Both were breathing fast, sweat beginning to bead their brows. James swung away from the sleeping man and took the step needed to bring him to B.A. He loomed over the seated man, looking disdainfully down while spinning the bullet chambers yet again. The rapid clicking seemed overloud in the small, concrete room.

"Will you beg for your token colored boy, Colonel. For this dumb brute?"

B.A. glared up into the muzzle of the revolver, defiant and proud, yet not daring to voice his fury. He set his jaw and waited. Hannibal slipped to his knees, raising both hands in supplication. Memories of the humiliation he had received at the hands of Chao in the POW camps once again fresh in his mind. Chao was a vicious tormentor, an expert with mind games, yet always with an underlying plan, a kind of logic to his various tortures. Usually he would settle for the appearance of humility in his victims. His way of "saving face", regardless of whether or not the prisoner was sincere. To have them publicly back down was the desired goal. Occasionally, he would keep the scales unbalanced and simply kill the pleading man anyway, but even in that act, Hannibal could sense a sort of psychological warfare against a military opponent. This, this was on the outside edges of his experience. He was sailing uncharted waters with a madman at the helm. Hands held before him, palms upturned, Hannibal pleaded.

"I'm begging you, Reverend. Spare his life. He is worth my life and more. Please don't do this. I've learned my lesson." The Colonel waited, hardly daring to breath as James searched the obvious sincerity in his eyes. The fanatic smirked.

"Not good enough."

B.A. looked at Hannibal, emotions cascading in upon each other in his eyes as his older friend cried out.

"NO! Stop!"

*Click!*

B.A. sagged a little, then pulled his head up once more as James swung back to the conman. The large man shifted, intent on reaching out for the madman, but the weapons in the hands of Brother's Benny and Dave swung up to point at Hannibal's head. B.A. stilled himself with an effort. The Reverend knelt beside the sleeping blonde and peered over his shoulder at the other two prisoners. Once again the clickety-click of the spinning revolver filled the room. Placing the muzzle of the revolver on Face's forehead, he slowly traced the line of the blonde man's face, cheekbone, jaw.

"This one will have a special place in Hell. He is responsible for the death of one of my own. In the morning, I will order my men to aim the stones only for his body, pulping his flesh slowly. I want him conscious for as long as possible, to enjoy my revenge. Perhaps it would be kinder if he died tonight, don't you think? Will you plead for the life of this murderous whore, Colonel?"

Hannibal was frantic, his breathing shallow and quick, his pulse racing. He knelt forward on all fours, then raised a trembling hand toward James, not daring to even raise his head at this point, but hanging it low, speaking to the ground.

"Please, please Reverend James. Please don't do this, I will do anything, anything you want if you stop right now. I'm begging you, pleading with you. Please!"

James grinned hugely at the prostrate man. Now he was getting somewhere! With the gun's muzzle, the black haired man gently parted Face's lips, then slowly slid the barrel of the weapon into his mouth. A quick look confirmed that B.A. and Hannibal were both watching in silent, helpless horror. The sleeping man moaned but did not waken at the obscene intrusion into his mouth. James watched in satisfaction as the Colonel silently shook his head in mute denial, eyes pleading desperately.

"Please." Hannibal whispered brokenly. James cocked an eyebrow.

"Not good enough."

Hannibal attempted to surge to his feet, but a sudden, hard hand grabbed his wrist and twisted his arm up behind his back. Brother Benny had straddled him while he was preoccupied with Face. Now he was being held down. James nodded approvingly. B.A. was looking into the muzzle of Brother Dave's AK-47. Hannibal tried to struggle against the incapacitating wrestling hold.

"Damn it, James! NO!"

*Click!*

Hannibal sagged, gasping, shaking. James yanked the muzzle from Face's mouth and spun towards B.A. The conman roused as the revolver sites clacked against his teeth, tasting gun oil and metal on his tongue. Opening his eyes, he saw a distorted version of the scene through fevered eyes and tried to clear his fuzzy head. Years of survival instinct bade him lie perfectly still until he could assess the situation. Adrenaline blew the fog from his brain. He watched in alarm as Hannibal, straddled by a Brother who forced the older man's arm up in an increasingly painful angle behind his back, clawed helplessly against the concrete floor, scrabbling his nails for purchase. He was trying to pull himself towards B.A. Reverend James once again towered over the sitting man, spinning the clicking revolver, grinning hugely. The fanatic placed it against the black man's temple.

"Beg."

B.A. closed his eyes and waited. Hannibal continued to struggle against the arm lock, shattering the nails of his left hand on the rough concrete.

"I've begged, you son-of-a-bitch! I've begged and pleaded! What more do you want of me? Just tell me and I'll do it!"

Face had seen his commanding officer beg for their lives before but never had he seen him this desperate. He didn't want to see but his eyes were rooted to the terrible scene. James raised his head toward the ceiling, savoring the moment, then pulled the trigger.

*Click!*

"God DAMN you, James! Stop it!" Hannibal was pounding the floor now, his hands raw from the rough surface.

James simply smiled and pulled the trigger for a second time.

*Click!*

B.A. was visibly trembling now, his mouth moving silently in an old, cherished prayer. Hannibal, unable to move, lay upon the floor and stretched out his one, shaking, free hand towards B.A.

*Click!*

Face shook, eyes wide, heart pounding. Three chambers to go, one of which held the fatal bullet. Hannibal was moaning. James was grinning.

*Click!*

"No, no, no, no, no . . . " Face was whispering over and over. B.A. had gone ashen, lips moving faster, trying to finish his prayers before the end. Hannibal had fallen silent, eyes haunted, latched onto the sight of his Sergeant, his friend. James sniffed disdainfully and pulled the trigger for the fifth time.

*Click!*

A great calmness swept over Hannibal then. The last chamber would hold the fatal bullet, splattering B.A.'s brains against the dank wall of their cell. He gazed deep into the eyes of Martin James, deadly calm, fierce.

"I'm going to fucking kill you, James. Even if I have to come back from the dead to do it." A promise. A vow.

James simply inclined his head in amusement and paused in triumph, then slowly squeezed his finger for the sixth and final time.

*Click!*

There was stunned silence in the room for a moment. Face's breath whooshed out, a tiny sound escaping as it went. B.A.'s eyes flew wide, his body trembling so hard he had to brace himself against the floor with both hands. Hannibal's eyes blazed with hatred, sparking from his brilliant blue eyes. He looked up at the black clad man now holstering his weapon.

"All the chambers were empty." It was a statement of fact, not a question. James simply smirked down at the prone man.

"Only five bullets to begin with, Colonel. Such a nice game, though, don't you think?" He motioned for Brother Benny to get up, freeing the white haired man. Hannibal's arm flopped to the floor, momentarily useless. He rolled over as James took up a position between the two armed Brothers once again. The fanatic smiled at the three prisoners.

"Only a few hours, gentlemen. I suggest you use them in prayer." He swept out of the room, a trail of laughter floating back to the stunned men left behind.

~~~aaaAAAaaa~~~

Murdock paused, looking back to see how his smaller companion was keeping up. Her small face, mottled with camouflage, shown dimly in the moonlight, eyes wide with a combination of fear and determination. The pilots heart skipped a beat at the sight, but he squelched the flutter and turned forward once again. They had been moving slowly through the ditch for over an hour now, stopping occasionally to wait while pairs of Brothers wandered by, either on patrol or out hunting the right size stones for the mornings festivities. He was about to do another recon with the sniper night scope when Amy hissed in pain. The Texan spun quickly, causing a tiny splash in the few inches of murky water that ran sluggishly through the bottom of the irrigation ditch. They both froze, listening intently for sounds from the plain above them. Nothing. Murdock leaned in close to the reporter.

"What happened?" The whisper was barely loud enough for her to hear. The young woman shook her head in exasperation and murmured back.

"Nothing to worry about, Murdock. I cut my hand on a piece of metal at the bottom of this cesspool." She held out her left hand, displaying a diagonal slice welling with blood. "I am definitely getting a tetanus shot after this! God knows what's in this water." She hissed in irritation as he examined the injury. With her other hand she fished around in the murky sludge and came up with a rusted, broken hoe, long abandoned by a farm hand. She laid it aside carefully as Murdock pulled a Swiss Army knife from his weapons belt, flipped open a blad and cut the bottom two inches off of his wet, black tee shirt and bound her hand quickly and efficiently. She watched him, noticing the now muddy, soggy cast on his right arm. The pilot was obviously favoring that hand. She looked up into his face in the dim light, but could not see his shadowed features. A frown creased her brow.

"You're going to have to have that arm reset by the time we're done here, you know." Her only answer was a noncommittal grunt. She rolled her eyes, then examined the binding around her hand. It still hurt like blazes but it would do. The reporter took this unscheduled stop as an opportunity to grill her tall guide. She leaned in close, voice low and dampered.

"So, are you going to let me in on the plan soon or are we just going to make it up as we go along?" She was rewarded with a quiet chuckle. Murdock bent his head down so that his lips were only inches from her ear.

"Well, I really didn't have anything in mind when we set out, kinda thinkin' on it as we go and using the recon to make plans. The night scope has shown eight men in pairs patrolling or looking for stones. I have to assume that there are at least four more, countin' James, in the house because I counted an even dozen around that tree when I was on top of the van with the sniper rifle. There could have been more in the house, though. I don't know. We know that the team is in the house somewhere, but I don't know where. We can't just go bargin' in looking for them. I don't know what kind of shape B.A. is in but I know Face is hurtin' bad. If we had to get two of them up or down stairs we'd be in trouble. Most likely we'd get ourselves trapped inside in a siege situation and we don't have the ammo to hold out. Our only chance is to wait until they come out of the house. Probably right before the stoning. That way, the guys will be all together and the enemy will be in one place. It's a risk, but I don't see any other way with just the two of us." Amy saw the darker outline of his shoulders shrug against the starlight. She murmured low, consternation heavy in her voice.

"And then what? How are we going to get them safely away from a dozen men or more, bent on pounding them to death?" Before he could reply, his oversensitive ears caught the low hum of voices moving in their direction. They flattened themselves against the side of the muddy ditch, careful of the rifles slung across their backs, fingers drifting towards their handguns. Above, two Brothers paused within ten feet of the two intruders, voices carrying on the soft night.

"Stop for a minute. I gotta take a piss." a definite Midwestern twang announced. A chuckle came from somewhere directly to the left of that voice.

"Dude, you piss more than anyone else I know. I haven't found any more rocks, have you?" A grunt was the man's only reply so he forged ahead. "I don't know about this thing tomorrow. Sounds kinda medieval or something, you know? But The Man says it's gotta be done, so I guess we do it."

"Yep. Don't wanna fuckin' mess with the Reverend. That man is either totally hooked up with the hereafter or he's totally insane. Either way, he's scary as all get out. Makes my hair stand on end sometimes, ya know?"

"Yea, kinda a rush, ain't it? Pay's not so bad, either." The second man's California upbringing was sounding clearer in his words as Murdock listened. Rustling noises issued from the California Brother's direction, followed by the flare of a match. Both men were silent for a time, long drawn inhales their only sound. The pungent fragrance of marijuana drifted to the pair lurking just out of sight below the ditch line. Amy rolled her eyes again, shaking her head in resignation. Murdock inwardly sighed, preparing for a wait.

The delay lasted almost an hour, during which Murdock and Amy listened to observations on the most delicious snack foods known to man, the best ways to get a woman into bed and the hottest cars made during the last twenty years, all accompanied by bouts of giggling. The situation was not amusing to the listening pair. Precious minutes were ticking by. At long last, the two Brother's, with a parting laugh about getting stoned while looking for stones, drifted away toward the farmhouse. Amy eased cramped leg muscles and sighed.

"Why didn't we take them out while we had the chance?"

Murdock simply shook his head.

"They turn up missing and the folks at the house will know for sure that someone's out here. Can't take that chance. We have to get them all together. It's the only way, I'm afraid." He motioned her forward and they set off once again.

A little past midnight, the pilot signaled for a halt, slowly inching his head above the rim of the ditch. He pulled the night scope from his weapons pouch and peered intently through it while the reporter attempted to ease the many aches in her back and leg muscles. Her body was rebelling after creeping for miles in a wet ditch, hunched over and striving for silence. Murdock remained motionless for several moments, letting the stars ambient light provide the illumination needed for the scope to pick out details as if it were daylight. Eventually, he dropped back to sit next to the young woman, moving in close to her, feeling the warmth radiate off of her as he murmured quietly.

"OK. We're as close as we can get on the least guarded side of the house. Most of the attention if focused on the front side, facing the road. That's where most trouble would come from normally. We're about a quarter of a mile from the outbuildings. Here is what I want you to do." Murdock paused. He didn't want to have Amy do anything. What he wanted was for her to go back to the van and wait. He couldn't do that, however. He knew he couldn't pull this off on his own and if he even dared hint to Amy that he wished she would back out, he knew she would have his balls for breakfast, and maybe dinner, too. Frightened she may be, but Murdock knew stubborn when he saw it. He sighed, unconsciously cradling his throbbing arm against his chest.

"You're going to have to get to as many of their vehicles as you can without bein' seen and disable them. You aren't going to be able to reach them all. There's some out front that are just too exposed. I've counted ten cars and trucks in all and I think you can reach about half of them before the sun rises a little before five. There's a Swiss Army knife, just like mine, in the large pouch on your belt. At least there should be, if B.A. is keepin' them up properly." He waited for her to check, and when she nodded, he went on.

"Puncture at least two tires on each vehicle that you can reach. Don't slash them, they'll make too much noise, the air comes out too fast. A nice, slow puncture is what you want. Don't do anything to th' white van. We're goin' to need it. When you're done with as many as you can reach, get yourself into that van and wait for my signal. You won't miss it, trust me. Come like a bat outta hell, Chiquita, cuz you'll be pickin' us all up. Got that?"

Amy nodded, eyes wide as saucers but burning with a fierce fire. Murdock groaned. It looked suspiciously like the jazz. The slender woman eyed the pilot curiously.

"And what are you going to be doing?"

Murdock grinned ferally.

"Recon, try to figure out where the team is, find a good spot right under their noses to view the big event. Now remember; keep low, crawl, slither if you have to, but don't let yourself be seen, Amy. Our only advantage is surprise. We blow that and we blow the whole deal. Ready?" He waited for her nod, grinned once more, then wriggled up and over the rim of the ditch, followed closely by his companion. The two muddy, black clad figures soon faded into the darkness.

~~~aaaAAAaaa~~~

Stephen sighed and rubbed his eyes. He hadn't been able to sleep, so here he was, two hours before dawn, leaning against the kitchen counter in the old farmhouse waiting for the sun to rise. Waiting for an event that he finally realized he was dreading. He listened absently to the heavy, somnolent breathing coming from the few brothers not on patrol, rolled up in blankets in the next room and reflected on his change of heart. The thirty thousand dollar bounty that had seemed so appealing earlier just wasn't worth it anymore. Besides, he had all those millions of James' to think about. The brown robed man grinned at the thought and decided to go check on the patrols. He moved past the window, never noticing the shadow that slipped away outside.

~~aa~~

Benny and Dave paused beside the Chevy Nova, eyes scanning the surrounding area, trying to note any movement in the dim starlight. Nothing seemed out of place. Nothing moved. The pair moved on past the car with the two unheeded flat tires. A slender figure wriggled out from under the vehicle's frame and silently slithered away towards another victim.

~~aa~~

Stephen strolled past the old, cement feedlot that attached to the weathered barn and observed the piled stones carefully arranged in a half circle facing the sagging structure. He put the scene out of his mind and walked past the pile of rotting tires by the corner of the building and on out toward the perimeter guard. After a brief conversation with the two Brother's on duty there, he took a leak, had a cigarette and returned. Striding past the tire pile, only a dark blotch in the darkness, he would have been very hard pressed indeed to see that the configuration of the old rubber tires had changed. He hurried on toward the house.

~~aa~~

The first tinges of dawn reflected dully in the driver door side mirror of the rusted, white van. A quick and wary eye would have noticed the reflection move slowly, quietly, then swing back again, but there was no one to see, no one to hear the almost silent click of a door being pulled gently shut.

~~aa~~

B.A. raised his weary eyes. Hannibal was still pacing, fast and furious. The Colonel had been pacing with almost frenetic speed since Martin James had left over four hours ago. B.A. understood. If his back didn't feel like it was on fire every time he moved, the large man would have been keeping his commanding officer company, working off the almost physical pain of the rage he felt inside. Instead, he contented himself with the necessary task of sponging Face's forehead with cool, soothing water instead. It gave him something useful to do and he was desperately grateful for that small gift.

Hannibal checked his watch, then looked over at his two friends. It was almost time. The sun was rising. He studied his Lieutenant. Face had finally drifted off to sleep after James had left, although he had been fretful for a time afterward, slipping back into delirium once the adrenaline had left him weak once again. The young blonde was flushed with fever, yet his skin was pale and clammy. Hannibal knew he had to get Face to a doctor soon. B.A., too. The large man was a tower of solid strength, even with his injuries, but the ragged mess that was his back would start to fester soon if not attended to. The Colonel could not even imagine the intense pain from the flayed nerves, the sensitive skin. He was grateful, nonetheless, that it was mostly surface injury. B.A. would have to move despite the pain. Hannibal needed him. The plan, weak as it was, had been made after James' departure and B.A. would need every ounce of his strength. The silver haired man sighed and stopped his feet reluctantly, turning towards his Sergeant.

"They'll be here any time, B.A. We need to get Face ready."

The larger man nodded and gently patted the conman on the cheek, speaking softly, encouragingly.

"C'mon, Face, time ta git up. C'mon, little brutha. Open them eyes."

Face moaned and turned his head away, batting weakly at the insistent hand. B.A. persevered and was rewarded with an unfocused blue gaze.

"B.A.," the blonde murmured in irritation, "Han'bal's plan sucked big time an' you know it. Stupid Khe Sanh Gen'ral. Now I got one inna leg an' Murdock's lost 'nother 'copter."

B.A. grinned at the Colonel's affronted look and tugged gently on the conman's shoulder.

"Gotta sit you up, Face."

The injured man, still caught in a plan gone wrong many years ago, vainly attempted to resist, pulling futilely at the old blanket that covered his bare chest.

"Go. 'Way. You fill out the paperwork. Lemme sleep." He whispered in irritation. The shift in Face's position and the resulting needle sharp pain down his leg brought the younger man suddenly, clearly awake, delirium free for the time being.

"Son of a bitch! STOP that, B.A.! What the fuck are you trying to do?"

B.A. simply shrugged apologetically, then winced at the ensuing fire down his back. Hannibal slipped off his white safari jacket and handed it to the Sergeant, smiling at the conman.

"Sorry, Face, but things are going to be getting interesting soon and we need you coherent. I've got a plan." He quickly outlined the scheme while B.A. slid the jacket onto the Lieutenant's lean frame as gently as possible. The blonde man gave his Colonel a troubled stare.

"That's the best we've got, huh? Man, Hannibal, that's a pretty thin plan."

The silver haired man shrugged.

"Best I could do under bad circumstances, kid. We need to get you standing now, get you used to being vertical again. Can't have you passing out on us just as things get going. Think you can keep it together that long?"

Face nodded, not quite convinced, but willing to give it a try. He paused, then let his gaze go slightly slack, looking off past B.A.'s shoulder.

"B.A., what about that pink elephant behind you? Is he going to help us?" The conman was rewarded with an alarmed look from the black man before continuing.

"Just kidding. Better get me up."

B.A. rolled his eyes at the injured man. Both larger men positioned themselves on either side of the Lieutenant and gently lifted. The blonde man's face immediately blanched, his eyes rolling back in his head and his body sagging. Hannibal quickly slapped the conman's cheeks smartlly, bringing Face back around. The Lieutenant groaned, hanging his head, struggling to stay conscious. He panted, gritting his teeth at the effort to clear his head. The three men stood for several minutes, two with their arms around the third, until Face finally looked up again.

"I . . . feel like shit." He whispered, gulping a little. Hannibal nodded sympathetically and adjusted the white jacket on the blonde man. The jacket was too large for the slender man, but was perfect for his plan. In the distance they could hear footsteps approaching.

"Gentlemen," Hannibal murmured fiercely, "Showtime."

The door swung open, revealing Brother Stephen and three other robed men armed with semiautomatics. The acolyte nodded to the prisoners.

"Gentlemen, time to go." He stepped into the room. "Colonel, Sergeant Baracus, please put your hands behind your back so they can be tied." The raised rifles gave authority to his request. Hannibal faced Stephen quietly.

"Face can't walk. He'll need to be supported and we'd like to be the ones to help him . . . this one last time. Can you leave our hands free? I . . . I don't want anyone else touching him." The older man looked Stephen in the eyes, letting his sincerity show. It was true. The younger, robed man thought about the request carefully. They weren't about to run, to desert their companion. He knew that much about them now. They were unarmed and burdened with the injured man. He compromised, turning his head toward the Brother beside him.

"Bind their hands in front." He looked at the Colonel again. "You'll have to manage as best you can that way. That's all I can do."

Hannibal nodded as he and B.A. helped Face lean weakly against the wall, then held their hands out, watching as a Brother bound strong, rough twine around their wrists. Face began to slide sideways against the wall, crying out softly as pressure was put on his leg. The Colonel spoke up sharply.

"Catch him, B.A.!"

The gathered men swung their heads to watch as B.A. quickly stepped to the Lieutenants side, halting his descent. No one noticed the sure, swift move of Hannibal's hands to his belt buckle, the depressing of a catch in the large, decorative buckle, nor the tiny blade that slipped into the silver haired man's palm. The Colonel then stepped to the other side of his Lieutenant and took up position.

Face gave the assembled men an apologetic grimace and placed his arms over the shoulders of his two friends. B.A. winced slightly at the pressure on several of the higher up lashes that had fallen on his massive shoulders. Both men grasped one of Face's hands with both their bound ones and held him tight between them. They began their journey up and out of the dark basement, supporting as much of their injured comrades weight as they could.

Hannibal was relieved to see that the long sleeves of his jacket fell down over Face's hand, draping over the older man's bound hands. No one noticed that he was not actually holding onto the conman's hands, or the fact that Face was supporting himself across the shoulder of his commanding officer. The Colonel quickly maneuvered the small Sarko Finger Fighter into position, the curved ends of the belt buckle that had slid away becoming the tiny hilt that slipped around two fingers. Hidden in Hannibal's palm, the razor sharp blade, triangular and only two inches long, began to slice through his bonds, all hidden beneath the overlarge safari jacket sleeve so innocently long and flopping on the injured man beside him.

"How ya doin', Face?" Hannibal murmured.

The blonde man glanced quickly at the Colonel, gave him a weak smile, a strained voice.

"Fine." Beads of sweat stood out on his brow as he concentrated once again on his feet, trying to place one surely and guide the other safely around obstacles. The strain of holding himself up on Hannibal's side was beginning to tell. B.A. tried to take as much of his weight as possible but they had to make it look convincing.

As they exited the house, Face felt Hannibal's strong hands take his and knew that the older man's bonds must have parted. He sagged slightly in relief. His friends held him up as they stepped into the pale, pearly light of a new day.

Martin James was waiting for them, along with his entire compliment of acolytes. The Reverend stepped forward and raised his arms.

"This day will see a true dreaming as we send these demons back to the Hell that spawned them! My judgment is swift! My path clear! 'For the Lord giveth wisdom: out of his mouth cometh knowledge and understanding. He keepeth the paths of judgment, and preserveth the way of his saints. Then shalt thou understand righteousness and judgment, and equity; yea, every good path.' It is time, my brethren. My dreams have brought us to this final reckoning. Bring them to the stoning circle."

The fanatic turned swiftly away, followed by the surrounded prisoners. As they approached the old barn with the connecting cement slab, Hannibal surveyed the surroundings with an analytical eye. He took note of the semi circle of stones carefully laid out on the cement. Obviously the three men were to be lined up against the outer wall of the old barn and pummeled to death. Just beyond the circle of stones was a pile of old tires, then an ancient, rusted plow. Both useless for weapons. Hannibal dismissed them. The doors to the barn were open, which gave them a possibility to get inside, but without something to hold the enemy off, it would be of little use. Glancing over his shoulder, the Colonel took in the positions of, and distance to, each vehicle within easy range. Those were going to be their only chance. He breathed softly to his two companions.

"Get ready."

Both gave minute nods, Face obviously struggling to stay conscious enough to be of any help. As they drew near to the circle of stones, Martin James drew aside to let the prisoners pass within. He smiled triumphantly at Colonel Smith as the older man passed him, then looked upon the men escorting his prizes.

"This is a triumph for you, my people! The evil . . ." He never finished, for in that instant, Hannibal sprang. Swift as an avenging angel, Hannibal was behind James, his left arm circling the black haired man's neck, pulling it taut, his right pressing the razor sharp blade of the belt buckle knife into the skin above James' jugular vein. B.A. quickly lassoed the sagging Lieutenant between his bound hands, holding the conman upright against his broad chest in the cradle of his arms. Hannibal roared.

"Everyone stand still or I'll cut his fucking throat!"

All motion ceased, men frozen in an uncertain tableau. B.A. edged toward the Colonel as the older man estimated the distance between them and the nearest vehicle. They would have to walk right through the gathered men. His human shield began to shriek.

"Kill them! My glory awaits in Heaven! Kill them now!"

All Hell broke loose.

The pile of tires behind Hannibal flew apart as a black clad figure arose from it's depths, mud caked, wild eyed and screaming a Commanche war cry. B.A. thought it was probably one of the most beautiful sights he's ever seen. Hannibal grinned as Murdock let loose with a round of live fire from his Stoner, sending brown robed men diving for cover. The sound of an engine coming to life, tires spinning, sending up chunks of grass and dirt, swung Hannibal back around again. The white van came shooting across the yard toward the team. Hannibal shouted fiercely, exultantly.

"Let's go! Our ride's here!" He tightened his grip around the horrified Reverend, keeping his hostage between himself and the regrouping men. B.A. murmured and apology to the white faced conman and hoisted him up, slinging the hapless blonde over his shoulder. Face promptly passed out. Murdock leapt from the confines of his tire fort and made it to his commanding officers side in three swift, long legged strides. Hannibal spared him a glance.

"What kept you?"

Murdock grimaced as he let loose with another volley of bullets, trigger and recoil shooting angry pain up the muscles of his forearm.

"Stopped for a chili dog."

The van slewed to a shuddering stop beside the four men. B.A. wasted no time in flinging the side panel door open and carefully laying Face on the floor, slipping his arms free from the limp body. Amy had the drivers door open now and stood on the running board, spraying the general area with covering fire with her Uzi, the higher pitched popping of her weapon in contrast to the lower sounds of the Stoner and AK-47's. Several of the Brothers had regained their wits and where returning fire from various places. Murdock tossed B.A. the Colt pistol from his weapons belt. The large man snatched it out of the air two handed, then moved to the back of the van, opened one door and began firing at a robed man now cowering in the tire pile. Several bullets pinged through the thin sheet metal of the vans side and traveled on through with an angry buzzing sound, only a scant hands width above the unconscious Face. The situation was definitely heating up. Murdock made for the front passenger seat as Hannibal attempted to drag his unwilling human shield into the van.

Brother Stephen could not let James' millions slip through his fingers. With an angry shout, he directed Benny to cut Hannibal off. Amy saw Benny slide around to the right and position himself out of Hannibal's line of sight.

"Hannibal!" Her shout would be too little, too late, the reporter realized as Benny raised his weapon, aiming at the Colonel's exposed back. Hannibal struggled to come around, to place his hostage in front of him but James fought him, despite the pressure of the knife on his throat, the trickle of blood now running down his skin. Amy swung her Uzi up automatically as Benny brought his rifle to bear on her friend. Without thought, the reporter opened up, catching the brown robed man in the upper right side of his chest. Blood fountained from the acolyte as his finger convulsed on the trigger. The shots went wild, spurting up dirt at Hannibal's feet, sending the Colonel jumping.

It was the opening that James had been waiting for. He brought his hands up and under Hannibal's wrists, pushing the knife away, twisting in the suddenly slack grip and breaking the older man's hold. He sprinted for the safety of the barn, leaving a cursing Hannibal behind. Murdock snatched the spare M-16 off his back and tossed it to his furious commander, who leapt into the van and shouted for them to go. Amy slid back into the drivers seat, white faced and shaking, shifted into gear and tromped on the gas.

Murdock, standing on the running board of the van, passenger door flung open, hung desperately to the door frame with one hand as he snatched a grenade from his weapons belt and tossed it at the first car they passed. The vehicle blossomed in fire and ear splitting noise.

James began to scream instructions, men spreading in all directions toward the various vehicles scattered about.

"I want those bastards dead! I'll pay whoever kills them one million dollars! Kill them!! Kill them all!!" Brown robed men jumped into cars and trucks, starting them forward only to find that they were riding on flattened tires. Only four cars moved without hindrance. James and Stephen piled into the back seat of one of them, yelling for the two men in the front to go. The small posse tore out after the the van, which had already reached the road half a mile away. Behind them the dust began to settle as one Brother's cautious head popped up from the tire pile, another peeked timidly from inside the barn and Benny, lying stretched out in the yard, coughed up blood that soaked away into the dry earth, pleading for someone to save him.

The white van skidded to a halt next to the black GMC, the team boiling out and throwing open familiar doors. Hannibal urged his people on.

"Go, go, go! They're right on our tail!" B.A., hands now free with the help of the little belt knife, didn't have time to be overly gentle with the unconscious Face, laying him quickly on the carpeted floor and barreling back around again toward the driver's door where Amy was headed. He quickly disavowed her of that notion.

"I'm drivin'!" He growled authoritatively. She glared at him.

"B.A. Your back! You can't." The large man simply shoved her aside and climbed in.

"Don' make no difference. I'm drivin'. Go take care 'o Face." He eased himself into the seat, feeling scabs split and liquid fire spread over the muscles. He didn't care. He was in control of something now. He could do this and do it better than anyone else here. Pain be damned. Amy raced around and climbed in just as the tires spun, shooting gravel from under the tires. James was right on top of them once again.

Murdock was hanging out the passenger side window spraying bullets at the approaching cars. Hannibal had climbed over Face, discarding the M-16 in favor of his beloved "baby", the M-60. Flinging open the rear door, he positioned the large machine gun and readied it for action.

The four cars that roared after them opened fire. Hannibal grinned. Action movies be damned. It took skill and practice to hit anything from a moving vehicle, especially another moving object. These hired ruffians off the streets of LA were a sad sight compared to the aptitude of the A-Team. The Colonel saw a small black object fly past and watched in delight as the resulting explosion forced the lead car to swerve into the ditch. Murdock was throwing grenades. Hannibal opened up and lay down an intimidating line of fire across the path of the second car.

Amy knelt over Face, secretly glad that she had been relegated to caretaker. Her trembling hands held the pale body of her friend down as the van careened around a corner. She looked up again to see Murdock pulling another grenade pin with his teeth, sending it up and over the van. The thunderous cacophony it made faded quickly as they sped on. Hannibal's M-60 was a shattering staccato vibration against her ear drums. She dimly heard him whoop in exaltation as the tires blew on the second car, sending them toward the ditch as well.

B.A. took the van into another heart stopping, stomach churning turn. The thrill of the chase coursed through his veins as his beloved van performed every maneuver, down to the tiniest detail, with precision and speed. He was in his element, using his best weapon. He checked the rear view mirror and noted that the fourth car was dropping away, evidently having rethought their willingness to continue in the face of two crashed car and a van full of bristling armament. Only one car remained now.

Hannibal watched the last car try to bridge the gap. The front seat passenger had poked a hole in the windshield to allow the muzzle of his rifle to protrude, allowing the two men in the back, Stephen and Martin James, Hannibal noted, the opportunity to hang out of their windows and fire at will. Bullets zinged and pinged past the van, some hitting the open door, some hitting the closed one. One even buzzed past Hannibal's head and buried itself into the inside roof of the van. The Colonel took careful aim at the approaching vehicle and pulled the trigger on Baby just as another grenade sailed past, heading towards the ground in front of the trailing vehicle. The tires blew at the same instant as the grenade, launching the car into the air. Hannibal saw Stephen go sailing, then James. The car flipped several times before coming to a rest. The Colonel nodded to himself, then closed the back door, looking behind him at the young woman who had thrown her own body over that of his Lieutenant. Amy looked up at Hannibal with overlarge eyes. Hannibal smiled reassuringly at her and glanced up to see Murdock's muddy, scabbed, drawn face peering back at him. The Colonel sighed. His men were all in bad shape. How did it all get to this point? He made his way carefully toward the front.

"Murdock, where are we?"

"A few miles from Bakersfield."

Hannibal did a quick calculation before turning to B.A.

"We're only about seventy five miles from Bad Rock and Maggie Sullivan. How fast can you get us there?"

B.A.'s lips were pressed into a thin line of pain, his body held taut.

"Fast."

Far behind them, two men staggered toward each other. Stephen limped badly on a sprained ankle, nursing cuts and bruises. He was glad. He'd checked on the two occupants of the car. They hadn't been so lucky. The acolyte stepped up to Martin James and took his elbow gently. The Reverend had a cut on his head as well as a rapidly swelling bump. James gave Stephen a dazed, confused look. The acolyte smiled reassuringly at his leader.

"It's OK, Reverend James. We can still get them. We just need to hire some more men. We'll have to go get some more money, though. Just tell me how to get there and well go together to get it. I'll take care of everything, OK?"

Stephen grinned as Martin James nodded his head in bemused agreement, letting his long time acolyte lead him gently away.

~~~aaaAAAaaa~~~

Maggie Sullivan was rinsing the last of her breakfast dishes, placing them in the dish drainer, when she saw from the kitchen window above her sink a black van pull through her back yard and up to the back door of her large, white, two story stucco home. It took her a moment to recognize the vehicle that she had last seen almost four months before. She had never thought to see those inside the van again after they had raced out of Bad Rock just a few steps ahead of the military police. The Doctor quickly stepped to the back door and flung it open, startling the silver haired man who was preparing to knock.

"Colonel Smith. You're just about the last person on earth I'd expect to see on my doorstep on a Saturday morning." She studied the man before her, noting the weariness and desperation in his face.

Hannibal scrubbed a hand over his face before replying.

"Doc, I need your help again."

As simple as that. She followed him outside. Murdock jumped out of the van and Maggie's eyes were instantly drawn to his drawn, scabbed face. Dried mud caked his black jeans and forearms but couldn't hide the remnants of what had once been a cast on his right forearm.

The pilot barely spared her a glance as he slid the side door of the van open and disappeared inside. B.A. climbed stiffly from the drivers seat and shuffled slowly around the front of the van as Maggie started down the back steps. The big man's movements struck the Doctor as odd and stilted. When he, too, headed for the side door, she got her first good look at his back. She gasped in horror. Whip marks, caked with old and new blood, some deep, some shallow and many looking angry and swollen. The Sergeant leaned stiffly into the van but did not crawl in. Maggie, now at the door to the van, peered into the dark interior, making out three figures around a fourth on the floor. She heard Hannibal's voice rise up.

"B.A., I think it'll be easier if we take him out through the back." The large man nodded and moved haltingly towards the rear of the van. Maggie laid a hand gently on his arm, stopping him.

"I'll get it."

She quickly stepped to the back and flung open the doors, flooding the rear compartment of the van with early morning sunlight. She recognized a grimy, black clad Amy Allen kneeling on the floor with Hannibal and Murdock. She also knew who her prone patient was and saw the blood covered, swollen leg for the first time. The Doctor's eyes met those of Hannibal's.

"Gunshot wound again?"

He nodded. "Broken, too."

Maggie shook her head in resignation.

"Let's get him inside." Between them all, Face was gently manhandled out of the van and through the back door, settled finally on the treatment table in Maggie's small examination room. She became brisk and businesslike, placing an oxygen mask over his face, taking his blood pressure, respiration and pulse, jotting them down. She removed the magazine splint and slit the leg of the conman's jeans from ankle to crotch, cutting away the denim and old bandages carefully. The leg was swollen and discolored from thigh to toes, wounds red and puffy. Face moaned and shifted his head. Maggie looked at the people gathered around her patient.

"I need to know what happened and when." She glanced at each one in turn. "From the looks of all of you, I'm guessing this is going to be one Hell of a story."

"It's a long story, Doc." Hannibal responded. "Murdock got his arm busted on Wednesday night, the same night Face was kidnapped by some real nasty types out to do us some mischief. We think Face was shot sometime on Friday morning. Small caliber handgun by the look of that wound. Bullet must've busted his leg at the same time. He's got some other injuries that probably happened earlier than that but they're relatively minor. B.A. was . . . injured just before sunset last night. Friday night, that is." As he was speaking, the Doctor gently opened the white safari jacket to reveal Face's torso, littered with scratches and scattered, dark bruises. Her eyes, and those of Murdock's and Amy's, widened in astonishment at what else had been left behind. The older woman's eyes flew to Hannibal's.

"These are human bites!"

Amy's hand crept to her mouth, a tiny sound escaping from her throat as she also looked to Hannibal. Murdock cursed under his breath, his good hand balling into a fist. Hannibal simply nodded sadly.

"I know. We saw. He said it didn't go further and we believe him."

Maggie swung on the Colonel.

"Whoever did this has to be stopped! This is molestation."

B.A. growled, low and menacingly. "He been stopped. He won't hurt no one no more, little Mama." Maggie gave the Sergeant a keen, calculating look before turning back to her patient and covering him with a sheet.

"Well, at least two of these are definitely infected, but I'll deal with those later. Right now we need to see to this leg and I need some room to work. B.A., I can give you a shot for pain to help for now, but I've got to help your friend first. I'm sorry." The large man reassured her.

"Ain't nothin' to be sorry for, little Mama. You take care of Face first. I'll be jist fine."

The Doctor nodded and quickly led the large man to the opposite side of the room where she ran a practiced eye over his wounds, then gave him a moderate injection of painkiller.

"That's the best I can do for now. You are all welcome to use the guest rooms and facilities upstairs. It may be a while before I can see you. Try to be patient." She glared at Hannibal. "You can stay and help, Colonel."

Hannibal watched his three friends trudge wearily from the room. When he turned back, Maggie was in the process of setting up and IV

"Come here, Colonel, I want you to hold his arm for me." He watched her as she expertly accomplished the task before moving on to inspect the leg. "You're right. Small caliber bullet. Looks like it deflected off the femur and exited here. It's a good thing it was a low velocity weapon. I think we'll get a clean break from the looks of the wounds. No bone fragments." She pointed to the large wound on the back of the unconscious man's leg. Face shifted once again, a groan rising up from his throat. The dark haired woman moved to his head, feeling the conman's forehead with the palm of her hand.

"He's definitely running a fever. Hand me that thermometer." She pointed to the equipment tray then gave the leader of the A-Team a measuring look before speaking quietly. "It's been a while since I've seen the effects of torture, Colonel. I never thought I'd see it here. I moved to quiet, little Bad Rock to escape things like this. B.A.'s back . . . I haven't seen something like that since . . . since Vietnam." She noted Face's temperature and replaced his oxygen mask. "I don't know how you can be so calm about all this."

Hannibal sighed, then smiled a small, self deprecating smile.

"I'm not, really. But we've been through worse."

Maggie flicked him a worried glance.

"Worse than this?" She indicated the grossly swollen leg, the bruises, bites, scratches and split lip before moving to the other side of the room to grab the chunky X-ray machine. Hannibal looked away for moment, out the window into the bright sunshine of a perfect day, then murmured quietly.

"General Chao."

Maggie paused, closing her eyes for an instant before giving herself and internal shake and pulling on the X-ray machine again. She had treated several rescued POW's while serving in 'Nam, but the stories told about one particular camp were as legendary as they were horrendous. Tales told by and about 20 escapees, led by a half-crazed Colonel and his half-dead Special Forces unit, that had escaped from the worst hell hole in all of 'Nam. Those 20 men were the only escapees ever to come from that camp. She looked at the man standing beside his Lieutenant, hand hovering close to the blonde head. She answered quietly.

"So. You're that Colonel."

He shrugged. "I'm that Colonel."

The Doctor nodded somberly, adjusting the machine over Face's leg. She motioned the older man to her side.

"Come over here, by me, behind the protective shielding. While I'm doing this, you can tell me all about the last few days."

~~aa~~

An hour later, Hannibal entered the waiting room to find his Sergeant sitting on one of the couches, hands on his knees, head in hands and nodding sleepily. Murdock and Amy were both dozing lightly in chairs, heads lolling on high backrests. They all became alert as the older man moved into the room. Murdock spoke for them all.

"Well?"

"We did a good job setting that bone, B.A. Doc says we probably saved Face's leg. His toes are still warm, so his circulation didn't get cut off." All three of his friends grinned hugely at him, B.A.'s drug induced stupor making his seem even wider. He couldn't help but grin back.

"Doc's just finishing up with a real splint. It'll be casted in a few days. She had to clean out some blood clots and sew up the wounds, but he's in pretty good shape, considering. She's got him pumped full of painkillers and antibiotics, now, so he's really out of it. He's going to be laid up here for about a week so we've got to get him upstairs now. I'm going to go get some help for that."

Murdock looked up in alarm.

"You're going to go get the Sheriff, aren't you? Are you sure about that? He'll probably want to turn us in again. I can help you." The Colonel shook his head.

"You've used that arm too much already. Besides, we're going to be here for awhile. Might as well get it over with and go see the Sheriff, have a talk with him before he does anything rash. B.A., Doc's almost ready for you. Hang in there."

The large man turned his slightly out of focus eyes up to his friend, skin pulled taut around his eyes.

"Doin' OK. Painkiller helped some. Gettin' real tired, though."

Hannibal rested his hand momentarily on his Sergeants shoulder in sympathy before making his way out the front door.

~~aa~~

The Colonel could have almost laughed at Sheriff Thompson's face when the wanted criminal walked into the Sheriff's office. Almost but not quite.

"Hi, Sheriff. Nice to see you again."

Hank Thompson shook his head, completely stunned.

"Colonel Smith, you have either got to be the craziest son-of-a-bitch I've ever met or the most reckless. What the Hell are you doing here?" The tall man's sharp eyes took in the older man's rumpled appearance and lack of bravado. His curiosity was piqued. Hannibal pulled a cigar from his mouth and lit it.

"We took a job about six months ago. Rescued a girl from a cult up near Oregon run by a lunatic named Martin James."

Sheriff Thompson nodded. "I read about that. Didn't know you were involved. Paper said he was holding something like twenty kids against their will, right?"

Hannibal nodded.

"Yea. He and his men were a real piece of work. Nearly killed us. Anyway, he broke out of the State Hospital about two months back and I guess he's been planning a little revenge on us ever since. Wednesday night things went to Hell in a hand basket. Kidnapped my Lieutenant and my Captain. Murdock got away but he got busted up. Held Face as a hostage and tortured him till we turned ourselves over to him, then he tortured my Sergeant." Hannibal's eyes reflected a different kind of torture that was not missed by the astute Sheriff. The Colonel looked down for a moment before continuing.

"We escaped and now we're here, over at Doctor Sullivan's. I'm asking for a little help. Can you give me a hand?"

Hank shook his head in amazement. By every right he should be on the phone calling for the military police. Instead he found himself walking out the door with a convicted felon.

What he saw when they reached the Doctor's house shook him to the core. Maggie had the large Sergeant sitting in the treatment room next to an unconscious Templeton Peck, cleaning the Sergeants back and slowly stitching up the worst of the deep gashes. Murdock and Amy knelt on either side of B.A., providing hands for the black man to grasp throughout the painful process. Despite the painkiller and local anesthetic to his wounds, B.A.'s face was a tight mask of gray, sweat rolling from his puckered forehead. After quick instructions from Maggie and a promise to be up as quickly as possible to settle her patient in and raise his leg, Hannibal and Hank skirted the foursome and gently picked up the stretcher that Face lay upon. Gathering the IV up, the Colonel lay it next to the injured man and the older men guided the stretcher up the stairs to a spare bedroom. Once the conman was settled, the Sheriff turned to Hannibal.

"This is an atrocity. You have to press charges!" As soon as the words were out, Hank realized how ridiculous the whole notion was. Wanted criminals pressing charges in court. The older man smiled bitterly.

"When you're on the run, Sheriff, the only justice you have is your own. We look out for each other. Now you've got a dilemma. We can't move Face just yet. Here's your chance to turn us in. What are you going to do?"

Hank Thompson studied his shoes for a very long moment, thinking on these men whom his head and their previous actions told him were good people. The town owed the A-Team for saving them from the sure disaster that would have befallen had the Barbarian motorcycle gang been allowed to run amok through the town and it's people. Yet he believed strongly in his oath as a law officer. He was proud of his integrity. The tall man gazed out of the window and sighed.

"I usually take a vacation around this time of year. Maybe now's a good time to go up into the mountains for a little fishing. Say, a week?" He slid a glance to the now smiling Colonel. Hannibal nodded approvingly.

"I think a week sounds about right, Sheriff. Just make sure your deputy knows what's going on."

Hank smiled then. "I will, and if he gets into any trouble, I'm sure he'll manage to find someone to help him."

Hannibal held out his hand, grasping the Sheriff's in a strong handshake.

"Thanks. We won't forget this. You ever run into trouble you get ahold of us. We'll watch your back for you."

Sheriff Thompson clasped the Colonels hand firmly, nodded, then turned and walked away, making plans for a sudden fishing trip.

When Hannibal returned to the examination room, he found B.A. front side down on the table Face had just vacated. Maggie was just finishing the last of the stitching. The Colonel watched her tape large swathes of gauze over the black man's back as Amy and Murdock hovered nearby. The Doctor secured the last bit of tape and turned toward the newest arrival.

"One hundred and forty seven stitches in various cuts on his back, Colonel. The rest will heal on their own. I had almost forgotten how cruel man can be." She bent slightly and looked into the glazed eyes of her patient. "B.A., I'm done now. I'm going to give you a shot of antibiotics and another painkiller, then the Colonel is going to take you upstairs and put you to bed, O.K.?" The Sergeant grunted his acknowledgment and allowed Hannibal to help him sit up, sliding his feet uncertainly to the floor. The older man gently took B.A.'s elbow and guided him out of the room. When he returned a few moments later, Murdock's soggy, muddy cast had been removed and he was waiting for a new X-ray film to be developed in the next room. The tired pilot smiled thinly at the older man before turning serious once more.

"Were you telling the truth when you said that Face wasn't . . . wasn't 'hurt' worse than a few bites?" He and the reporter both looked inquiringly at the silver haired man. Hannibal nodded, eyes downcast.

"Yea. Face says he, uh, stopped him, and I'm pretty sure it was just before things got too interesting. From the state we found him in, he was telling the truth."

"I was right, then, wasn't I?" Amy spoke up softly, sadly. She had been very quiet since their escape, her face a picture of conflicting emotions. Murdock glanced at her curiously, then back to Hannibal with a questioning look. The older man answered Murdock first.

"She had information that one of the Brothers had molested some of the young men from Jamestown. We didn't know if he would still be with James, but he obviously was. He isn't any more."

Murdock opened his mouth to ask the obvious question but silenced himself when Maggie reentered the room with X-rays in hand. She was smiling in satisfaction.

"Well, Mr. Murdock, I am happy to say that the bones in your arm haven't shifted any. We just need a simple recast. I'm concerned with the amount of dirt in those scabs, however. I want to reclean some of them. Where did you get so muddy?"

"An irrigation ditch." Both Murdock and Amy answered in unison. The Doctor's eyebrows lowered, studying the pair.

"That's a pretty nasty place to be. Lot's of interesting bacteria in those ditches. Did you swallow any of the water?" Both of the younger people shook their heads before Murdock piped up.

"Amy cut her hand, though."

Maggie directed a look toward the reporter, who hesitantly held out her cloth wrapped hand, still soggy and muddy from the ditch. The older woman sighed.

"What did you cut it on?"

"An old, rusty hoe."

Maggie nodded knowingly. "When was your last tetanus shot?"

Amy searched her memory. "Ummm, when I was a teenager, I think."

"OK. Mr. Murdock, I'm going to recast your arm, give you some painkillers, clean your scrapes and start you on a course of antibiotics. Miss Allen. . ."

"Amy."

Maggie paused. "Excuse me?"

Amy reiterated. "Just call me Amy."

"And I'm just Murdock or H.M." the pilot interjected. Maggie smiled and continued.

"Very well, Amy. After I bandage your hand, I'll give you a tetanus shot and start you on a course of antibiotics as well." She turned toward the watching Hannibal. "Is there anything I need to be treating you for while I'm at it?" He shook his head.

"Nope. Just fine, Doc. I think I'll go sit with Face while you finish with these two, though." He smiled gently at his two remaining members and slipped from the room.

Hannibal was sitting quietly in a soft, comfortable wing chair a while later when Maggie entered Face's room. She immediately went to her patient, resting her hand on his head and checking his pulse. Satisfied, she placed several pillows beneath his injured leg before coming around to kneel beside Hannibal's chair. She looked up into his tired face and felt her heart melt. He was looking down on her sadly.

"We're quite a sorry bunch, aren't we?" He murmured softly. She smiled gently.

"Murdock and Amy both went to take showers and climb into bed. I just checked on B.A. and he's sleeping soundly. Colonel, why don't you go get some rest as well. I can sit with . . . Face?" She wondered if she was using the correct name for the Lieutenant.

"Face is what his friends call him, Doc, so I'd say you got it right." He grinned now, a little spark of life showing in his eyes once again. "And you can call me either Hannibal or John."

The kneeling woman cut a glance up towards those blue eyes.

"What do your friends call you?"

"Hannibal."

The dark haired woman gave a tiny, sly smile.

"Then I'll call you John. And it's Maggie, not Doc, to my friends." She watched as Hannibal's grin widened and was suddenly, savagely glad for it. Her heart squeezed at that smile. She had almost forgotten what it was like the first time she met this charismatic man those many months ago.

A slight moan from the man on the bed broke her train of thought as they both turned toward Face. His eyelids fluttered momentarily before he settled back into a deep, drugged sleep. The two older people watched him for a moment before turning back toward each other. Maggie broke the silence.

"Go get some sleep, John. You're exhausted. I'll sit with him. All my guest rooms are filled, now. You can, um, sleep in my bed." She finished with a slight flush, turning quickly to look at her patient. She could almost hear the smile on his face before he answered.

"Wake me if anything happens, anything at all. If Face has a nightmare, if one of the others need me, or if any strangers come to the door." He rose, resting his hand briefly on her head, then left quietly. The Doctor settled into his vacated chair, a myriad of pleasant, confusing and alarming emotions vying for attention, promising to keep her well entertained during her vigil.

~~~aaaAAAaaa~~~

The sun was setting when the sound of someone pacing woke both Murdock and B.A. They looked across the room at each other before the pilot rose from his single bed and, seeing that the Sergeant had levered himself up onto his elbows, motioned B.A. to stay.

"It's Amy. She's got the room next to us. She's been awful quiet since this morning. I think I'll go see what's up. You just stay where you are, Big Guy. You're lookin' mighty sore." The black man grunted, settling back onto his chest and turning his head to listen carefully. The pilot made his way next door, knocking softly. The footsteps stopped momentarily, then came towards him. Amy opened the door slowly and Murdock was stunned to see the look of anguish on her small, pixie face. His heart twisted.

"What's up, sweetheart? What's wrong?"

He stepped into the room as the young reporter resumed her pacing.

"I . . . I can't stop thinking about that man I shot this morning." She wrung her hands, shaking her head as if trying to shake a memory. "I didn't think it would be so hard to shoot someone, but it is. It's horrible. I keep seeing the look on his face when . . . when the bullet hit him. And there was so much blood." She swung around to face the pilot, eyes bright with unshed tears.

"How do you do it, Murdock? How do you distance yourself from war and shooting and blood and pain and . . . and . . ." She spun around, throwing her hands up in the air. "I can't stand this! It's killing me, not knowing if that man died because of me."

The Texan took a step forward, placing his hand on her arm, turning her gently to face him again.

"It's not easy, Amy. It's never easy, and if it were, then we wouldn't be the kind of people you would want to be around. We live in a very violent world, sweetheart, and violent things are going to happen. We try to minimize it as much as possible, but the reality is that things happen, no matter how much we wish it wouldn't. I know what you are feeling. I really do, trust me."

She looked up into the kind, sweet face of her friend, letting him brush a single, silent tear from her face with infinitely gentle hands. She nodded and sighed, whispering softly.

"I have to know."

Murdock took her hand and led her out of the room, catching an alert eye from B.A. as he passed the open door to their bedroom, and led the reporter downstairs to the phone in the outer waiting room.

"Call the hospital in Bakersfield. That would have been the closest hospital. Turn on that reporters skill and find out about the man with a gunshot wound to the chest."

Amy nodded mutely, then picked up the phone to dial information. Murdock watched her carefully as she went through the motions of finding the number for the hospital, calling and scamming the information that she needed. He watched her face; noting the pale wash of her skin, the tightness around her wide, frightened eyes, her trembling fingers and he wanted nothing more than to turn back time and make everything all right.

Amy listened to the voice on the other end of the line and began to shake. She whispered a shaky "Thank You" to the nurse before hanging up and turning to her friend. Her voice shook as she looked into his warm brown eyes.

"He'll live."

Flinging herself into his arms she wept, all the fear and anguish washing away with her tears. The pilot folded her into his arms and whispered meaningless assurances into her hair, holding her tightly against his chest. A movement out of the corner of his eye caught his attention and he saw B.A. stop at the top of the stair, then nod and turn stiffly away. After a time, the young woman pulled herself away from the tall man, sniffling and wiping her eyes. She looked down in embarrassment.

"I'm sorry, Murdock. Didn't mean to get your shirt all wet."

He tilted her head up and smiled.

"Hey, Chiquita, you can soak my shirt anytime, you know that."

She nodded and looked at the floor again.

"I know. Thanks. You're a good friend. I . . . I think I'm going to take a walk, OK? I want to clear my head." She smiled tremulously at him before making her way out the door. Murdock followed her as far as the front porch steps, then sat down to watch the last of the sunset paint the western sky. After a moment slow, heavy footsteps approached from behind him and B.A. settled his sore, stiff body gently onto the top step beside the pilot. He watched the retreating figure of the reporter disappearing down the street in the dusky light for a moment before turning his scowling gaze to his friend. Although his visage was angry, his words were gentle.

"Why don't you jist tell th' gal you love her, fool?"

Murdock snorted, not surpised that he had been figured out so easily by the ever watchfu Seargent. He shook his head sadly.

"I may be crazy, B.A., but I'm not that crazy. She doesn't see me as anything but a good friend, and if I tell her I love her it'll ruin what we do have. What am I supposed to do, huh? Propose marriage to an ambitious, talented woman who has her whole life ahead of her and ask her to marry a crazy vet who lives on government disability? Not to mention the great place I can offer her to live in. Gee, Amy, come stay with me in the VA! I love her too much to do that to her, to burden her like that, even if she did love me back. Just leave it, B.A. I know you mean well, but just leave it be."

The big Sergeant watched Murdock watch the empty street, purple shadows creeping up to hide the pair in the darkening eve, and said nothing, simply sat next to his friend and sometimes ornery nemesis, and gave his silent strength.

~~aa~~

Hannibal stirred, then flicked his eyes open at the silent tread of feet on the carpeted floor. His hand snapped out and clamped onto the hand that moved toward his face, relaxing his grip only when a familiar voice came out of the darkness.

"John, you can release my wrist. I'm not about to murder you in your sleep."

The Colonel smiled up into Maggie Sullivan's face as she flicked on the soft light of the bedside lamp. He glanced at the alarm clock and was astonished to see that it was a little past ten at night. Maggie noticed the direction of his look and was quick to reassure him.

"Everyone's all right. B.A., Amy and Murdock woke a while ago and I fed them some supper. I even managed to get a little chicken broth down your Lieutenant. You were sleeping so soundly that I didn't have the heart to wake you, but we all just finished watching the news report on Martin James and I thought you'd want to know what the press is saying. Some local folks called the Sheriff's department when they saw all the wrecked vehicles and the investigation eventually took the County Sheriffs to a farm where they found a dead body and evidence of a gunfight. They are saying it is a cult fallout involving Reverend James and his followers but there's no mention of the A-Team. Evidently, none of the members wanted to speak up and admit to kidnapping and attempted murder. The reporter on the TV said that aside from the one dead man, who appears to have died earlier than the fire fight, there is one man in critical condition with a gunshot wound to the chest, and two men in severe condition and two in fair from injuries received in car accidents. You'll love this part, John. All the men in custody are screaming that it was Martin James fault but he's nowhere to be found."

Hannibal stared up at her for a moment, rolling the report around in his head before heaving a frustrated sigh.

"So, the son of a bitch slithered away, huh? Damn. I should have killed him when I had the chance." He lay back and ran a hand through his disheveled hair, standing the silver locks on end. Maggie leaned over him, worry etched on her features.

"It's all right. Your men are safe and getting better. Murdock's sitting with Face. Why don't you come down and get something to eat. You must be hungry by now." She was only inches above him, soft light from the lamp painting her face in a warm glow. Hannibal was suddenly struck by the fact that he could have been very, very dead right now instead of laying in the bed of this intelligent, beautiful woman. He looked into her incredible eyes.

"I am hungry. But not for food."

He pulled her to him and kissed her.

~~~aaaAAAaaa~~~

Murdock was awakened by tiny grunting noises. The pilot sat up in the wing back chair, straightening his spine with a crack. He hadn't realized that he had dozed off and saw that the alarm clock read almost 2 a.m. The sounds came again. Murdock recognized them this time. Face was having a nightmare. This was one the Texan had seen before but not recently. Face's hands were held out, warding off an assailant, small grunts and cries coming from the back of his throat, forced through tightly gritted teeth. The pilot knew better than to take hold of the conman during these dreams. That was a good way to get a black eye. Instead, he lowered himself from the chair to the floor next to Face, his head next to the blonde head, his mouth close to the conman's ear, murmuring reassurances and pleasant nothings. He let his voice roll on, comforting and warm, until Face began to relax.

Murdock paused in his soliloquy, looking up to make sure that his friend was sleeping soundly again, and found himself surprised by a pair of blue eyes looking back at him, glinting slightly in the low light of the beside lamp. The Texan grinned.

"Hey, buddy. How ya doin?"

Face's gaze fell away, seeking safer ground than the keen eyes of the pilot.

"OK." The whispered answer was evasive, noncommittal. Murdock scrutinized the blonde man closer, noting the flush in his cheeks.

"You thirsty?"

The conman shrugged, then nodded halfheartedly, still keeping his eyes averted. The pilot quickly poured a glass of water from the pitcher on the night stand, slipped a bent straw in it and held it for Face. He watched as his friend took several sips. When the glass was returned to the night stand, Murdock reached out a hand, intent on placing it on Face's forehead to test the conman's temperature, but drew back when the other man flinched away from his touch. Murdock frowned inwardly.

"It's OK, Facey. I just wanted to see if your fever's rising again." The conman cut a quick, embarrassed glance at the pilot, settling his eyes on the blanket again.

"Sorry. I'm . . . I just . . . " He trailed off. Murdock sighed.

"Wanna talk about it?"

Face gave a strangled little laugh.

"No. Not really."

Silence fell between the two for several moments, the clock ticking it's seconds away in the quiet, shadowed stillness of the early morning hours. Murdock finally shifted on the floor next to the bed, trying not to bump his newly casted arm. Face stared at the ceiling, listening to the soft breathing of the man next to him. The silence wore on him until the conman squeezed his eyes shut, hands clenching the blanket tightly. He whispered brokenly.

"I . . . I couldn't let it happen again, Murdock. You can understand that, can't you?" He waited for the whispered "yes" from his friend before continuing. "I wouldn't . . . wouldn't have survived it this time. I was tied to that tree like a sacrificial lamb. He was . . . touching me and kissing . . biting . . . and his tongue . . . God forgive me, but I just couldn't go through it again. I had to . . . had to stop him." His breath was coming in panicked gasps now, eyes wide, seeing other scenes in his minds eye.

Murdock covered his astonishment by laying a comforting hand on the trembling man. Hannibal and B.A. hadn't said how the man on the news had died. The pilot had suspected that it had been the bastard who had hurt Face but B.A.'s defensive comment to Maggie in the examination room had led Murdock to believe that the black man had been involved somehow and he found himself amazed at B.A.'s willingness to allow that perception in order to protect Face. The pilot shook his head sorrowfully, once again whispering soothing words into his friends ears, this time to chase away a waking nightmare.

"It's all right, Face. You were just protecting yourself. He was a sick son-of-a-bitch. You did what you had to do."

The blonde man turned his head to stare deep into the warm, brown eyes of his friend, his own blue eyes tortured and haunted.

"I know." Face whispered, barely loud enough to be heard. "But it wasn't a spur of the moment defense. I knew exactly what I was going to do and then . . . I snapped his neck." The conman once again turned back to contemplate the ceiling, his hands picking fretfully at the bed covers. "And I'd do it again. That's the worst part. So much for my resolve never to kill again." he finished bitterly.

Murdock could see the heightened color of the conman's cheeks and knew the Lieutenant's fever was definitely on the rise. He felt Face's forehead, patted his friends arm reassuringly and rose, intent on finding the Doctor. A shadow detached itself from the dark corner by the door and Hannibal stepped into the light, motioning the surprised pilot back into the chair once more.

"I'll get her." he murmured calmly, slipping from the room.

~~aa~~

Half and hour later, Maggie stood outside the closed door to Face's room with Murdock. Pain medication and fever reducer had allowed the conman to drift back into a dreamless sleep, attended by the watchful Hannibal. The Doctor took Murdock's good arm gently, steering him back toward the room he shared with B.A.

"The sun will be up soon. You need some rest, Murdock." She glanced up at the tall, quiet man. "Face is having a difficult time, isn't he?" The question was concerned yet probing. The pilot sighed.

"His soul's just worn a little thin right now. Don't worry, Doc. We'll patch it up. We've gotten real good at sewin' up each others bodies and souls over the years." His voice reflected sad bitterness at the circumstances that had made support from the outside world a rarity to the convicted team members. "At least I have the VA. The others don't even have that much. We do for each other. We always have."

He turned into his room, shutting the door quietly behind him, leaving a contemplative woman standing alone in the hall.

~~aa~~

Sunday morning church bells roused Face. He gave his consciousness a moment to become aware, listening for sounds around him, before letting his eyelids slide open. Hannibal was still sitting in the wing back chair, watching Face with tired eyes. The conman lowered his gaze.

"You didn't have to sit up with me."

The silver haired man shrugged.

"Yes, I did. For you and for me." He sighed, looked at his folded hands for a moment, then out the window at the bright, blue sky.

"Face, you did what you had to do to survive. Don't ever feel guilty about that. If that man had . . . if he had finished what he started, I would have found him and killed him myself. He was a worthless human being."

Face looked at his commanding officer with astonishment. Hannibal was as adamant about not killing again as the rest of them. The older man turned his head to look his Lieutenant squarely in the face.

"Amy found out some terrible facts after you were taken. There was at least one boy that had been molested at the Jamestown compound."

Face looked the older man in the eyes now, nodding sadly.

"I know. Brother John indicated that there were . . . a lot. He said that I was . . . that I was older than what he liked but I wouldn't be able to testify. I couldn't stop thinking about all those hollow eyed looks we saw on so many of those kids up there."

Hannibal looked down at his hands again, not wanting to see the younger man's eyes when he told him the rest.

"That's not all. We wondered why none of the boys came forward to testify, remember? Well, one of them wrote about his experiences in a diary. I guess he was raped repeatedly by your attacker." He glanced up quickly to see the shadows of horror reflected in his Lieutenant's eyes. "Anyway, he said in the diary that he couldn't tell, that his abuser was out there and had promised to come back for them if they ever told. He couldn't take it. A month after we freed them from Jamestown, he committed suicide."

The conman's face blanched white.

"Oh my God." he whispered in despair, swiping his trembling hand through his disheveled blonde locks. "Ah, Sweet Jesus. I intentionally killed a man, Hannibal. That's a mortal sin. I mean, in the war it was what we were supposed to do. Even the bible had wars. But . . . this time. I don't know. And now I'm feeling almost glad that I killed that sick bastard. God, I'm so confused." He shook his head in frustration. Silence settled over the pair as Face tried to sort out his complex emotions. Hannibal waited patiently, listening to the sounds of people moving about in the kitchen below. He heard B.A.'s gruff voice followed by Murdock's laughter. The words were indistinct but the very intonation sent a soothing wave through the weary man. The silver haired man's ruminations were interrupted by his Lieutenant's soft voice.

"I have a favor to ask of you, Colonel."

Hannibal looked at the young man expectantly. Face was composed now, almost calm. The conman sighed once, then nodded.

"I haven't been a devout Catholic in years. I think you know that. In fact, I'm pretty damn bad at it, but I need confession now. Can you arrange for Father Magill to come here? I think he's going to be the only one who can help me sort this out."

Hannibal raised an eyebrow, then smiled.

"Sure. I'll give him a call this afternoon, after the morning Mass is over." He tilted his head, hearing footsteps on the stairs. "I think your breakfast is coming."

Maggie entered the room with a tray. She gave Hannibal an arch eyebrow.

"If you want any food at all, John, I suggest you get a move on. Your team is definitely feeling better this morning." She turned to smile at Face. "I've brought you some breakfast and I want you to try to eat as much as possible. Then I'm going to examine you and change your dressings. Any questions?" She was rewarded with a warm smile from both men. Hannibal winked at Face.

"Guess I know when I'm being dismissed." He rose smoothly, heading for the door, then paused to look back at Maggie mischievously. "I'll be back for dessert later."

The Doctor blushed.

~~aa~~

Hannibal leaned against the fence in the back yard, looking out over a horse pasture. Maggie's house was on the edge of town, the homes straggling along the street, becoming further and further apart. The sun had set, leaving a carpet of stars in it's place. It had been a day for resting and healing. Face had slept most of the day, aided by painkillers and exhaustion. B.A. as well. Murdock had coaxed Amy into a game of chess while Maggie had made a run to the grocery store. Hannibal had watched over them all. He didn't like the feelings that had been churning in his gut since his run in with Martin James. He felt unaccountably anxious, wanting to know where everyone was. He struggled to quell the confusing emotions; anger, fear and the need to have control over things. The Colonel recognized the symptoms. He'd felt them after the POW camps. It was a result of being completely helpless, of having to subjugate himself in order to survive. Every time he thought of begging that lunatic for their lives the rage he felt made his heart pound harder. His stomach would flip flop, his teeth would clench and his skin would feel too tight. Thoughts of destroying something were actually soothing. The sound of the back screen door slamming shut broke his reverie. He looked up to see the slight figure of Maggie Sullivan making her way across the lawn toward him. He relaxed and smiled at her. She smiled back.

"I wondered where you went to."

"Just needed a smoke. Thought I'd watch the stars a bit. How's everyone?"

The dark haired woman laughed softly. "The same as they were the last time you asked, about an hour ago. Relax, John. It's over." She noted the shadow of creases in his brow, highlighted in the soft star shine. "It is over, isn't it?"

Hannibal shrugged. "I don't know. James got away. I'm not going to be able to rest comfortably until I know for sure." He took her into his arm, burying his face into the soft comfort of her hair. Maggie slid her arms up his broad back, holding him to her, feeling the tenseness of his muscles. She leaned back and looked up into his face, saw the worry in his eyes. Worry and anger.

"There's more to this, though, isn't there?" she queried. The Colonel hesitated for moment, then crushed her to him, taking her lips almost savagely, tasting her, sensing her. She returned his passion just as fiercely, then drew back, leaving him panting, sensing the almost primal need behind that kiss.

"Now tell me. Your wound up tighter than a watch spring."

Hannibal released her and took a step back, turning his head away.

"James took something from me. He made me beg. Beg for the lives of my men. I did it gladly but it still . . . the fear . . . damn!" He finished explosively, unable to put his feelings into words. Never a strong suit of his to begin with. He looked Maggie in the eye, forcing honesty to the surface. "I hate him. With every fiber of my being, I hate that son-of-a-bitch so bad that if he were in front of me right now I'd crush his throat with my bare hands. He hurt my men and humiliated me and I want him to feel all that and a hundred times more. God damn him to Hell!"

The slender, dark haired woman slid into his arms once again, looking up at this proud man.

"You're feeling threatened and hurt. You should. But the raw wounds will scab over in time. Eventually they may even heal. Just give it some time. Focus on your men now. They need you to be strong for them. But with me . . . I'll listen anytime you want. I'm here. Right here."

Hannibal looked down at her, so vibrant and beautiful in his arms. He took another kiss, which she gladly gave. Then he took another, more insistent, more passionate, thrusting his tongue against hers. The woman in his arms laughed throatily, tugging his arm as she sunk onto the grass. He followed her down, feeling intensely alive and grateful.

~~aa~~

After Father Magill arrived on Monday morning, Amy announced that she was going to catch a ride back to LA with him. The others were stunned by the abruptness of her decision and Hannibal was reminded of the way she blew into his apartment just a few days previous. The reporters explained patiently.

"Guys, some of us have to work for a living. I took a very sudden, unscheduled vacation from an important assignment in Washington. Now I've got to try to salvage what I can of the situation."

Murdock tried to be bright and cheerful for her. After all, he'd done this many times before. When the good Father left Face's room he was somber. He nodded to the others, however, and they felt comforted by that. Amy thanked Maggie for once again being there. The older woman pooh-poohed her, stating that she was a doctor, after all, and what else could she have done? Amy simply looked from her to Hannibal and grinned before turning to Murdock. She took the pilots hand in hers.

"We had quite the adventure, didn't we? You were pretty amazing, you know. I've never done anything like this in my life. You got me through it. Thanks." She stood on tiptoe and lay a soft kiss on the pilots cheek. His eyes sparkled.

"Hey, Chiquita, you make a pretty good commando. I'll see you next time, OK?"

She nodded, then waved to the others and walked toward the door with Father Magill. Hannibal's voice stopped her.

"Amy?"

She turned, looking at the leader of the A-Team. He grinned that wide, boyish grin.

"You ran with the big dogs, girl. Thanks."

The reporter flushed with pleasure then followed the priest out the door. Murdock went to the window and watched them drive away. He stayed there for some time.

~~aa~~

B.A. visited Face later that afternoon. The conman looked a little more at peace with himself, although he had had another nightmare during an earlier nap. The haunted look in his eyes was still present, but the Lieutenant had managed to hide it a bit better. The Sergeant knew that it was going to be some time before those particular demons subsided. They had all been through their own particular bouts of dreams and knew how it went. The nightmares would fade slowly, but they would fade, only making the occasional appearance after a while. The Lieutenant was regarding his large, black friend with a questioning air, thoughtful gaze taking in B.A.'s careful posture as he sat, the fact that B.A.'s back never touched the back of the chair. Face shifted, then winced as his leg spasmed slightly. B.A. looked alarmed but the conman held out a hand.

"It's OK, B.A. It does that all the time. Doc says the muscles are all irritated." The Lieutenant paused, then plunged ahead. "I've been wanting to thank you for . . .for stepping in and taking my punishment. I still wish you hadn't, but I'm grateful anyway. I'm not quite sure why you did it, though."

B.A. rolled his eyes and snorted.

"Sometimes, Faceman, you a bigger fool that Murdock. Why you think I did it? Would you have done the same for me?"

"In a heartbeat."

"Then you got your answer. Now stop askin' silly questions." the big man huffed. Face grinned. How could one respond to such flawless logic? A soft knock on the door announced Maggie's arrival, this time for another check of the patient. As she noted the conman's temperature on her chart the Doctor teased the two men.

"I must say, in the last few months you two have provided me with more excitement than I've had here in a long time. Twice for you, B.A., and two gunshot wounds between you. Considering that I had one case of pink eye in the office today, all day, I'd say that life just isn't going to be the same after you leave."

The Sergeant blushed furiously as Face grinned, testing out his happy-go-lucky persona once again.

"Happy to be of service, Doc. What's my chart say today?"

"It says you are getting better, young man. We'll have you on crutches by the end of the week. Speaking of charts, who keeps your medical records? Being on the run isn't exactly conducive to regular check ups, I wouldn't think, and your line of work seems somewhat high risk, wouldn't you say?" Maggie arched her brow at the blonde man as she switched out the dressing on the gunshot wound.

Face gave her a smug look. "I keep the records. I keep all the records on the team. Financial, medical, dental, you name it. I think I've done a pretty good job considering I'm not a doctor."

Maggie was impressed. "I'd like to see them sometime, if you wouldn't mind? I have to update them anyway. Would you like me to see if there's anything else you should be doing with them?"

Face considered, his natural wariness warring with his innate love of detail and organization. Finally, he decided to trust his gut instinct.

"Sounds good. I'll make copies and send them to you. I'll let you know the address of a drop box so you can mail them back. Keep a set of copies for yourself, too. Never know when we'll be back on your doorstep again. Just keep them safely hidden, OK?"

Maggie smiled. "Not a problem. B.A., are you coming down for supper? Murdock has decided to cook tonight."

The large man's eyes widened in alarm but he nodded and exited the room with Maggie with promises of supper to be delivered to the patient. As Face picked up the book Maggie had loaned him earlier in the day he could hear Murdock singing the opening aria from the opera 'Carmen' at the top of his lungs.

~~aa~~

On Tuesday, Deputy Jack Harmson showed up on a shiny, black Harley motorcycle, courtesy of a Barbarian who had jumped bail after posting the machine as collateral. A police auction had placed the hog back into the deputies hands, the same machine he had rode the day the A-Team had saved the town from the outlaw motorcycle gang. Maggie ushered him into the living room where he found an increasingly bored B.A. meandering about. The black man had taken to wearing a large, loose shirt over his injured back but the stiffness with which he moved spoke of the injuries hidden under the garment. Hannibal entered from the kitchen with a ham sandwich in one hand and a glass of milk in the other, both of which he promptly handed to B.A. before greeting the law officer.

"Hey, Deputy. Nice hog you got there. Looks kind of familiar."

Jack laughed delightedly, then looked around.

"Hank asked me to stop in from time to time and check up on things. Don't know why. Guess he figures you desperadoes are going to find some trouble to get into or something. I just wanted to find out if there is anything you need?"

Hannibal shrugged and looked at B.A. The Sergeant brightened.

"Yea. The van got shot up some. I could use a shop to work in, if you know of someone who'll let me?"

Jack studied the stiffly moving man for a moment, wondering at the advisability of letting him do anything too physical. From the look on Hannibal's face, Jack was certain he was thinking the same thing. He tilted his head.

"Tell you what. I've got everything you'd need in my garage. I like to putter around on my car. You come on over and I'll help you. How's that sound?" The Deputy was rewarded with a gleaming smile from the black man and a hand to shake. The deal was made and B.A. happily left to find his precious van. After they had left, Hannibal headed upstairs to check on Face and Murdock. He peeked into the bedroom where his Lieutenant lay and, finding them playing a game of chess while the pilot expounded at length on something called the Order of the Boa, decided he would continue down the hall towards Maggie's bedroom. Now that Amy was gone, there was a perfectly usable bedroom available. He had never managed to get his small stash of belongings moved in there, however. He found the Doctor sorting clothes to be washed and watched her for a moment, enjoying the play of sunlight and shadow on her figure as she moved. She saw him standing in the doorway and smiled a welcome. He took her up on the invitation, gently slipping his arms around her waist and nibbling on her ear.

"Face and Murdock are busy and B.A. is gone." He whispered huskily into her ear. She smiled.

"You are insatiable, you know that? What are you going to do after you leave?"

Hannibal grinned at her, all Cheshire cat in his smile.

"Guess I'll just have to come back, and come and come and . . ."

She punched him playfully on the arm, then turned quiet, giving him a long measuring look.

"I'm serious, John. What happens now? Do I only see you when you or one of the team needs my medical expertise? "

Hannibal gazed down at her large eyes, mesmerized by this intelligent, feisty woman. God, she was his match in every way and she understood the experiences that he and the others had gone through, suffered through, during the war. She had witnessed it first hand, the knowledge sealed in blood and bone and screaming boys. He breathed out.

"I want you for more than your Doctor's degree, Maggie. I want you, period. I can't promise you that it will work or that I'll even be able to see you on anything like a regular basis, but I'd like to try. Will you let me?"

Maggie studied the silver haired man for a moment, tilting her head and regarding him with a thoughtful gaze before stepping to the bedroom door and firmly closing it.

Down the hall, Murdock and Face looked at each other, the sound of the closing door echoing in the large house. They grinned at each other knowingly. The pilot was trying to stick one long finger down his cast to scratch an itch as Face contemplated the chess board. He stared at the board for several minutes as the lanky Texan became more and more restless. Finally, Murdock could stand it now longer.

"Face! Move already!"

The conman, jolted out of his reverie, looked up at his tall friend in bemusement.

"Sorry, I was just thinking." He indicated the game before them with a pointed finger. "Look at this chess board, Murdock, the pieces that are left. We've got two sides, both with their kings and their pawns. It's just like Martin James and Hannibal." He pointed to the black king. "That was James, the queen here was Brother John." He grimaced at the sick metaphore before continuing. "The bishop is Stephen, and all these pawns. Then there's the white king, Hannibal. The queen, Maggie, and the bishop, B.A."

Murdock considered the board now, caught up now in Face's analogy.

"Then who'm I? And Amy?"

Face smiled sadly.

"You and Amy are my knights, Murdock. The ones who rode in to save the day."

"And you, Facey, which one is you?" The pilot asked softly, although he already knew, for it was the only white piece left unnamed and it made his heart twist a little to see it. The blonde man smiled bitterly, knowing that Murdock had figured it out.

"Why, I'm this little, white pawn here." He murmured, touching the tiny, wooden chess piece with a forefinger. "I'm just the pawn."

~~aa~~

Three days later, Maggie saw the team off. She and Hannibal had spent the night making fierce, passionate love. The pair had spent many hours in each others arms, the troubled and angry Colonel transforming his fierce emotions into equally feirce passion, pouring his energies into the healing well that was Maggie. They had not made any promises nor commitments to each other. How could they? They would enjoy the time they could snatch, however. Hannibal had promised to come back up in a week or two, once he was sure that Face was going to be fine and there was no further threat to the team. The hard bitten Colonel found himself reluctant to leave this oasis, this haven. He had found peace in Maggie's arms.

Face had quietly grasped her hands, looking into her eyes and smiling a genuine smile for the first time since his arrival. The good Doctor looked him straight in the eye, then, and asked the question they had all wanted to ask.

"Are you going to be all right?"

His smile had faltered slightly.

"Father Magill says that everything happens for a reason, Doc, and I just don't see the big picture. I'm holding on to that until a better explaination comes along." Then he kissed her gently on the cheek before allowing himself to be helped into the van and ensconced among several pillows in the back.

B.A. had given her a big hug, whispering thank you and calling her "Little Mama" yet again. Murdock had her sign his cast. Three times. After they had roared off, the Doctor sat on her porch for a very long time, watching the sun sink toward the west and considering the strange and wonderful mesh of personalities that made up the A-Team.

~~~aaaAAAaaa~~~

Epilogue.

Stephen Prizler, formerly Brother Stephen, contemplated his sumptuous surroundings at the Beverly Wilshire Hotel with satisfaction. He padded across the room, wrapped in a plush, soft robe and picked at the bounty on the room service cart. Choosing a chocolate dipped strawberry to go with his glass of 100 year old brandy, he stepped to the balcony of his penthouse suite and looked down to the street below. A dirty, ragged homeless man stood on the sidewalk next to the bus stop, waiting for new faces to walk by. His scruffy, unshaven face shone with manic ferocity as he watched two women approach. Stephen could clearly hear the man's voice as it rose stridently from the hot pavement four stories under him.

"Demons abound, my flock! They lay in wait to snatch the unwary! They are everywhere and nowhere, you neighbors and your family! They wear ordinary faces and look like ordinary men! 'And they worshipped the dragon which gave power unto the beast: and they worshipped the beast, saying, who is like unto the beast? Who is able to make war with him?' They will come upon you when you least expect it! Be warned! They are the Lords of Perdition!!"

~Finis

~~~aaaAAAaaa~~~


End file.
